


A More Intimate Understanding

by umbrafix



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: Over time, Lord Melbourne learns more of the queen and his understanding of her deepens. During Prince Albert's visit, the contrast between his and Lord M's behaviour leads Victoria to make a different choice.





	1. Early Days

Lord Melborne is aware from very early on in his acquaintance with the queen that she had not been happy at Kensington. She is artless and open about the things that please and displease her, and her every reference to her childhood is of its restrictions, boundaries and loneliness.

 

He tries to ensure that, for all that the life of a monarch is filled with duties and restrictions of its own, she has as much freedom of choice now as possible.

 

As a consequence of her history, there is an unfortunate rift in the relationship between the queen and her mother. Clearly blaming the Duchess of Kent and Sir John Conroy for her previous life, the queen seems unable to let any mention of them pass without expressing her disapprobation. One of her first acts when they moved to Buckingham Palace had been to bar Conroy from her apartments; another, to establish the duchess in the opposite wing of the castle. And, of course, long before that, she utterly rejected Sir John as a suggestion for her private secretary and accepted Lord Melbourne instead. Each one of these is an insult, though in the case of his queen Melbourne knows they are not calculated. She acts entirely on instinct when it comes to her family, often, he worries, to her detriment. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her that the duchess is an influential figure, and Conroy is more than capable of bringing significant force to bear himself. It would be so much better for the queen if she could win them to her side with some small concessions, keep them happy and neutral.

 

But he can only guide her, never correct her. It is not his place. And he sees that any small, careful comments regarding anything to do with her family only stoke her ire, although she never turns it upon him. He is, he rather thinks, the only person who  _can_ make such suggestions.

 

The first couple of months after her accession are chaotic as he adjusts to his new role as secretary, and he only gradually learns the dynamics of the new queen and her family. To start with, his understanding is largely informed by the queen's careless, throwaway comments and the sources he has watching her mother's household.

 

Gradually, over the years, his own observations fill in the gaps.

 

\----------------------

 

The Duchess

 

“Drina, you really must-“

 

At the sound of voices, Lord Melbourne pauses in the doorway. He'd expected to find the queen alone; it is their usual time in the morning for dispatches and this is her favourite room to meet in. Instead she is flushed with temper, drawn to her full height, and attempting to stare down her mother.

 

“Mama,” she says, and he hears the effort she's making to keep her voice civil. “I am perfectly able to decide these things for myself. You cannot give orders on my behalf.”

 

“You have no idea of the suitability of such things,” the duchess says. Perhaps she intends her tone to be coaxing, but Lord Melbourne cannot help but hear it as the queen will take it – as belittlement and criticism.

 

“I am fully able to choose whom I see and when,” the queen cries. “We are not at Kensington any more, Mama, you cannot keep me locked up!”

 

“Locked up – what nonsense, Drina! We only wanted what was best for you.”

 

“What was best for me? What was best for me would have been for me to have had companions. For you to have cared about me as more than a puppet for you and Sir John!”

 

“Drina-“

 

“You  _never_  wanted what was best for me.” The queen almost hurls the words. Her mother, previously upset, goes very stiff.

 

“You do not understand, Drina. You were only a child.” She eyes her daughter. “You are _still_ only a child.”

 

Lord Melbourne winces inwardly. If there is one thing guaranteed to inflame her...

 

“I am the queen!”

 

“But you do not know how to-“

 

“ _And whose fault is that!_ ”

 

Breathing hard, the queen whips around and suddenly becomes aware of his presence. Until now he thought it sensible to remain quiet, not wishing to worsen things with an interruption. Seeing the tears that threaten to spill and the look of impotent anger on her face, he takes a step forward.

 

“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, as though he hadn’t witnessed any of it, and watches her steady herself. It takes mere seconds for her to collect a semblance of dignity, to cast off the mantle of distressed child that the presence of her mother has thrust her into.

 

“Lord M,” she says, and her voice is steady but the colour is still high in her cheeks. “I was not informed of your arrival.”

 

He makes a slight gesture with the sheaf of papers he carries, enough to fix her eyes on them. For her to grasp upon the excuse they offer and turn back to her mother.

 

“Yes, of course.” She stands tall, dignified. “Mama, I’m afraid I have business with the prime minister.”

 

The duchess is slow to leave them, pausing to whisper something in the queen’s ear which makes her eyes flash with anger. She brushes past Lord Melbourne where he stands, and, at his brief gesture, a footman shuts the door behind her.

 

“Well,” the queen says, and spends a moment smoothing down her dress. He observes her for a moment.

 

“A... disagreement, ma'am?”

 

She nods, not meeting his eyes. Her own are suspiciously bright. “She has been trying to restrict my visitors, speak to my ladies behind my back.” Her breathing quickens as she speaks, and he can see her temper returning.

 

“You are both settling into your new lives here,” he says cautiously. “Perhaps she is merely having problems adjusting to her new role.”

 

She nods, then a moment later shakes her head. “No. No, Mama is...” She stops herself, seems to swallow back the words. “She always has to push,” she resumes a moment later. “She can never leave me be.”

 

“If she is aiming to get a reaction from you ma'am, then the best course of action would be to deny her one. Don't let her affect you.”

 

“But she is  _wrong_ to treat me like this!”

 

It is the cry of a child, having a fit of temper. It is the cry of his queen, who has been trampled on her whole life and is desperately struggling to be free.

 

“You are the queen, ma’am,” he says, simple and matter of fact. “In the end, she must do as you wish.”

 

She shakes her head, mouth forming a thin, despairing line.

 

“Perhaps you should come up with some battle tactics,” he says, trying to provoke amusement. Then, “I wish you wouldn't let her upset you so, ma'am.”

 

“You don’t know what she’s done!”

 

“No ma’am, I don’t.” He pauses for a moment. “In the end it is how she affects you  _now_  which determines her power.”

 

She is fascinating to talk to, in that every thought and realisation pans over her face as she thinks it. He sees it now, the moment she processes his words and realises that she is letting her mother  _win_.

 

“I-“ A quick breath, a frown, and he watches her visibly stamp down her petulance.

 

“It can be difficult, I find,” he says a moment later. He waits until she glances at him to take another slow step closer. “To overcome a lifetime’s habits. A certain person or thing can spark off reactions just because that is the way one has always reacted to them.”

 

She nods, gives him a quick, thankful glance. She is so grateful, he’s found, for even the most basic understanding and empathy directed her way.

 

“Shall we, ma’am?”

 

\------------------

 

Victoria (Lehzen)

 

“Lehzen told me before I met you that you were very disreputable, you know?” the queen says with a laugh as they walk together through the gardens. They spend a great deal of time in each other's company now, and she has become comfortable with him.

 

He gives her a quick, considering glance. “Did she?”

 

“Oh yes! She thought I ought not be in a room alone with you.”

 

“As a general rule for an unmarried lady with a gentleman, that is not unwise, ma’am,” he says carefully.

 

“But you are my prime minister.” She stretches out her hand to the side and skims it across the leaves of the hedge as they pass by, pausing to tug off her glove so that she can do so with bare fingers. “She does not understand.”

 

“I’m sure that she’s just concerned for your welfare, ma’am.”

 

A slight snort. “Not like my mother, who is merely concerned for appearances.”

 

She is eyeing him sideways, and he has a sudden foreboding of her asking him exactly  _why_  he is considered disreputable.

 

“How long has the Baroness been with you?” he asks as a diversion.

 

“Oh, but she's always been with me! She came over from Hanover when I was born, though she didn't take over as my governess until I was five. I remember feeling quite grown up.”

 

“Ah, yes, five is a very wise age,” he teases, and can't help thinking of his son.

 

“I was afraid of her at first; she was so very stern. But she was good to me. I remember-” and a smile lights her face “-she used my dolls to help me practice how to address people, and what I should say to them.”

 

He smiles in return, a little sadly.

 

“Of course, we had to go through it all again once it was clear I was to inherit. I remember that she had a funny way of tilting the dolls so that it looked like they were going down on one knee to kiss the queen’s hand.”

 

“And which doll was the queen, ma’am?”

 

Her eyes dart to meet his. “You’ve seen her.” He nods to show he remembers. “She was my favourite.”

 

“And why is that, ma’am.”

 

Her answer is a while coming. She pauses at a patch of flowers, tall red daisies – Caro would have known their name – that wave with the breeze; she reaches out and plucks one, bringing it idly to brush against her cheek.

 

“I remember when I received her for my birthday… Mama told me that she thought I would like her because of her hair.”

 

He doesn’t follow, and she sees his bemusement.

 

“She said she’d noticed I was playing the most with a fair-haired doll before that.”

 

“So, she became your favourite because you liked blonde hair?”

 

“No,” she says, and shakes her head in amusement. Then, quieter, “She was my favourite because my mother noticed.”

 

She casts the flower carelessly to the side, and they continue.

 

“Lehzen was the only one who was on my side,” she says abruptly after another minute, and he gives her a side-long glance.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

“She didn’t think Mama and Sir John were right to keep me like that at Kensington. To make me… She didn’t like it either. She could never say so, of course, not to them. But she said so to me!”

 

“So, she was your ally?”

 

“Yes, exactly. She was the only one who cared about me at all.” She says it quickly, in the blunt, unselfconscious way she dispenses all such bits of information, and he doesn’t quite know what to say in response. “She was the only one who supported me, when Sir John tried to force me to make him private secretary.”

 

“Ma’am?”

 

She’d been so determined, that first time he’d seen her, not to have Conroy as her private secretary. Of course it makes sense that the matter had arisen before.

 

“At Ramsgate,” she says, as though that should elucidate matters.

 

Casting his mind back, he dredges up, “You went there on tour, I believe?”

 

After a quick glance she comes to a stop again, facing him. “Yes,” she says. “Almost three years ago. I didn’t like it - I was very ill.”

 

“I’m… sorry to hear that, ma’am. We heard nothing of it here.”

 

“No. Mama and Sir John thought it might make me appear weak.”

 

He clenches his jaw slightly and says nothing.

 

“They tried to get me to sign some papers,” she says, eyes large and vulnerable as she looks up at him. “They wouldn’t leave me alone. They said that I had to accept him as my private secretary, that he was the only one who would be able to guide me. That I would fail, otherwise.

 

“That was wrong of them, wasn’t it, Lord M?”

 

There are diplomatic answers, answers which will not encourage her vendetta against them. And then there is supporting his queen.

 

“I wouldn't agree with such an action, ma’am,” he says frankly.

 

“Lehzen thought so too.” She begins walking again, her pale blue gown whispering as it brushes over the grass, and he falls in beside her. “She would try and tell them I was too ill, that I needed to rest. She would stand at the side of the room so that I could look at her instead of them.”

 

 _I wish I had been there, ma’am_ , he doesn’t say. It is a useless thought; there is nothing he could have done.

 

“I’m glad that she was there for you.”

 

“Yes,” she says, and he can tell by her tone of voice that she is off somewhere deep inside her thoughts. “But sometimes she still acts like she is my governess. And she cannot be governess to a queen.”

 

He stays quiet, and after a minute she flashes him a smile.

 

“Honestly,” she says. “Imagine her lecturing me on  _you_ , Lord M. When you are quite the most-“

 

She draws in a quick, startled breath, and pulls her hand swiftly in to her chest. All this time she has been running it through the greenery, brushing her fingertips across the leaves and flowers, clasping her hand around the odd stem, and now as he follows her movement he sees the bright gleam of blood.

 

“You’re hurt.”

 

He reaches instinctively, then arrests his movement.

 

“It was only a thorn,” she says, inspecting the palm of her hand. “I shouldn't have taken my glove off.” A few small beads of red glisten in a line, and he fishes for a handkerchief.

 

“May I, ma’am?”

 

She looks up, and then proffers her hand with a curious smile. He takes it in one of his, feeling the backs of her small fingers in his grasp, and then gently presses his handkerchief against the scratch.

 

Her fingers flex slightly in his hold, and with weighty inevitability his gaze meets hers again. Her smile is a little more uncertain now, a little more wondrous.

 

He allows only a few moments more, then carefully pulls the handkerchief away to examine her hand.

 

“It is nothing,” she says, following his gaze. “Although Lehzen will fuss.”

 

In his mind, it is good that there is at least someone in her life who will.

 

\----------------------------

 

 

Sir John Conroy

 

Conroy has always irked Lord Melborne, though he's never spent that much time with the man. Still, his political leanings and manipulations have been enough to form the basis of a solid dislike, and the idea of him having the influence of being the queen’s private secretary is one which Melbourne is relieved from the first to realise that she will not stand for.

 

His later reasons for disliking the man are… complex. The queen blames Sir John for many things, but Melbourne blames him for her emotional fragility, her lack of awareness of so many of the things she should have been instructed in for her position, and, most importantly, for the occasional bullheadedness she displays to get her way simply because she's never had it before.

 

He wants to be able to tell her that she doesn’t have to win every argument, prove herself at _every_ opportunity and fight so ferociously for every point - because he knows it will win her enemies. But this is what she knows. She has been, from what he can determine, helpless and isolated her whole life - if she is no longer the downtrodden little girl at Kensington, then she must be the opposite and never let anyone put her in that position again.

 

She struggles with it, but her true character shines through – perhaps Lord Melbourne is the first to see it in the early days because no one else has asked her opinion before, has allowed her to speak her mind rather than demanding or expecting. She is bright and courageous and kind - when she realises that she can be - and her cruelty is out of temper or ignorance rather than cold manipulation. Over time, as she befriends her ladies and gains confidence, that self shines through more and more; merges with the persona of the queen that he is used to seeing her effortlessly adopt.

 

She makes mistakes, wavers, recovers, is scorned and vilified; he almost loses her because he has not realised the lengths she will go to in order to keep him as prime minister, and how her perceived weakness will be preyed upon by others after he has resigned. The crisis is averted when Sir Robert Peel resigns and Lord Melbourne realises the depth of his mistake, the risk he has put her at. How alone she is. He steps back to her side, offers his assistance and is accepted, and resolves to move forward and ensure that she will be stronger and more self-sufficient, next time. Because of course there will be a next time.

 

She has insisted that he dine with her that evening – to celebrate, she'd said – and so he arrives at the Palace and is directed to the library. Dismissing the footman, he rounds the door and finds her standing just inside the entrance.

 

She is not alone.

 

Many times, always strictly to himself, Lord Melbourne has observed that his queen is rather short compared to those around her – the contrast can occasionally be amusing. But he has never thought she was _small_ until this moment - dwarfed as she is by Sir John Conroy, who stands next to her gripping her upper arm in a tight hold.

 

Melbourne is not ashamed to say that he sees red. A sharp breath in through his nose, three strides forward, and he is knocking the man’s hand aside even as Sir John is saying, “You are not _capable_ of running the country - and you will not accept guidance. It was for your own good-“

 

“For my own good!” she yells, pulling back a step as soon as her arm is freed. Melbourne angles himself so that Conroy cannot advance, but holds his tongue. “You told people I was mad. You made Mama say… you made Mama…”

 

“I didn’t have to tell her what she already knew,” Sir John says coolly, with a quick glance at Lord Melbourne and then back to her.

 

Melbourne can see her firing up for another rally, can see the blind  _hurt_  stinging across her face.

 

“I think perhaps there is a need for your presence elsewhere,” he says icily. “Immediately.” And then he lets his eyes flick from Sir John’s outstretched hand to the queen.

 

It takes only seconds for Sir John to understand Melbourne's point; he pales, face turning ashen grey, and his hand drops to his side. He takes a step back, beyond Melbourne's reach.

 

“I-”

 

“ _Immediately!_ ”

 

Conroy's gaze flicks cold and hard to the queen as he leaves, and as soon as he is gone, Melbourne shuts the door behind him with force that rattles the panes.

 

He takes a deep breath before he turns, releasing his anger, and when he faces her again she is flushed and uneasy. He takes a step closer, concerned, and the discomposure on the queen's face increases.

 

“Ma’am?” he asks after a moment, and she gives a small shake of her head, spinning on her heel to face away from him.

 

He watches her, the way her hands fist in the material of her skirts, the way tension lines every inch of her, and he settles his feet slightly apart to stand waiting, content to remain as long as necessary. Eventually he sees her shoulders come down, her spine relax, her small fingers ease the creases she has made. She turns, and her eyes meet his with a mixture of defiance and shame.

 

“Lord M,” she says.

 

He smiles slightly, his eyes cataloguing her intently. “I see you have bearded the lion in his den,” he says.

 

Her attempt at a smile is small, but it is an attempt at least. “I rather fear he found me,” she says. Then, “He was… He said-” She cuts herself off, glances to the side. Tips her chin up, and boldly meets his eyes once more. “He said that I should have accepted it, that I should have been grateful to be sent away.”

 

“Then he is a fool, ma’am.”

 

He has been watching her carefully, because the one thing she should have reacted to is the thing that she hasn’t. Conroy had laid his hand on her - had probably left bruises if Melbourne’s guess was right - and she could have had him arrested _instantly_. She would do it, she hates the man enough.

 

But it hasn’t even occurred to her.

 

 _It must be normal_ , a dark voice in his mind whispers, and a muscle in his cheek twitches with the effort not to show his emotion. It must have happened enough times in the past that she doesn’t see it as a crime; that she doesn’t understand the potential consequences of Conroy's actions. There are plenty of reasons why she might not pursue the matter, political reasons, or to maintain the relationship with her mother - though these are unlikely to be reasons his queen would ever heed. But to ignore it because it hasn't even registered that this is unacceptable behaviour towards the queen, towards _her..._ that leaves a poisonous feeling in Melbourne’s stomach.

 

“Are you alright ma’am?” he cannot help but ask.

 

She brushes her hands down over her skirts, as though dusting herself off. “Yes, of course,” she says, but there is a hesitant note there.

 

He pauses, irresolute. He could push the matter with her; make her aware. It could lead to disaster, however, and they have had more than enough of that, of late.

 

“It's been a tiring day,” he offers. Receives a strained smile as she glances away.

 

“Earlier, I had rather hoped the difficult part was over,” she says quietly.

 

“He has no power to manipulate the situation any further, ma'am.” Because Lord Melbourne had spent a long afternoon beginning to root out Conroy's supporters and _ensure_ it. “You need not concern yourself with him.”

 

“Need not concern myself-” She gives a disbelieving laugh. “He has spent my entire life trying to-”

 

He takes a quick step forward. “I swear it, ma'am.” And she stops, her incredulity softening to surprised wonder.

 

“You mean that, don't you?” she asks quietly, eyes intent upon his face.

 

“Yes, ma'am,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

 

She stares at him a few moments longer, fingers tapping lightly against the sides of her dress. Then, “Why did you offer to be my private secretary, Lord M?”

 

He blinks, surprised. “Ma’am?”

 

“The first time we met. You said that you would be my private secretary, if I wanted.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

He cannot read her face, cannot fathom why she is asking _now_ when she never has before. The standard answer would be power, of course. Certainly, that would have been Sir John’s reason. And it does bring political power, but that was not _his_ reason - because before her he had been tired; ready to retire to the country and not have to worry about the world.

 

“I suppose I wanted to help, ma’am, if I could,” he says simply

 

A moment hesitation. Then, “Why?”

 

If anything, he should be glad of her wariness, because it is very rare in her position that people will not seek to use her for their advantage. Even so, her search for his motives is distressing.

 

“I knew… very little of you, ma’am, before I came to you that day at Kensington.” She nods – her mother and Sir John had kept her away from court, away from anyone who might influence her. “I knew that you were very young, that you might not have a great deal of experience in politics. I had assumed – everyone had assumed – that Sir John would be your private secretary. When you indicated to me that that was not your preference, I thought perhaps it was a way I might serve you.”

 

Her eyes are still on his face, judging the sincerity of his every word. She has always trusted him, his queen, almost blindly, since almost the very beginning. Indeed, in hindsight he finds it reassuring that she had  _not_  accepted him as her private secretary immediately, that she had waited until she knew him at least a little.

 

“Might I ask the reason for your query, ma'am?”

 

“I have always wondered,” she says. “Why you would offer when you didn't even know me. I thought at first that you must be another person trying to use me, trying to...” She considers a moment, then, abruptly, “They all say that you're only taking the position back so that you can control me.”

 

He smiles at her, very gently, and takes another step forward. “And what do you think, ma’am?”

 

Still she watches him, still she assesses.

 

“I don’t believe it to be true,” she says a minute later, and glances to the side. “I've never believed it.”

 

“I think you would not be so easily controlled.”

 

A pleased little smile curls across her face. “Sir John has always tried,” she says.

 

“And I note that he has not succeeded, ma’am.”

 

Her smile fades a little. “No.”

 

She made it through the eighteen years before he met her. Her strength of will has survived unbroken, her vitality still shines through in every movement.

 

Lord Melbourne thinks of how easily he could have cast John Conroy down, tonight, and how deserving of it the man is.

 

“Are you hungry, ma’am?” he asks instead, and she smiles and walks towards him as if the previous incident had never occurred. But oh, it had, and the knowledge of it sits in his stomach like a lump of iron all the way through her distracted smiles at dinner, all through the night and his restless sleep.

 

And in the morning, he goes out and ensures through various avenues that Sir John Conroy will  _never_  have the audacity to touch his queen again.    

 


	2. Upset and Defenseless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has never seen her in such an unguarded moment – no one, he is guessing, outside of her immediate family, ever has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we start going AU here, pitching for a happy ending but who knows :)
> 
> As I'm sure is completely evident, this is using the versions of the characters from the tv show, and less in line with real history and the rather different personalities and relationships that might be found there.

Victoria (Albert)

 

He has seen her in many moods, this queen of his. Elated and afraid and mournful and  _happy_. He flatters himself that he may be able to read her better than anyone else on God’s Earth, that he can tell with a glance whether the small wrinkle between her brows is one of puzzlement or building ire, that he can coax and tease her into a better mood despite herself.

 

He has known her for over two years now, been there for her highs and lows and  _knows_  her. Knows his queen, better than he had ever known his wife. For all his recent effort to separate them, to decrease her attachment and dependency to him, rend his heart though it does, she will not let him go, because he is the one who knows her best.

 

_Give it time, ma’am,_ he has wanted to say, has tried to say. _Let Albert get to know you, let me step back so that there is a space for him to fill._

 

But she has clung, and it has hurt him, and it has led to sharp words from the prince which have left their mark on her. Days, weeks in Albert’s company have turned her back into the girl Lord Melbourne first knew, desperate for reassurance that she is enough; that she is talented enough, wise enough,  _good_ enough. She has thrown herself into everything that Albert has identified as lacking – her piano playing, her reading, her painting – in an almost frenzied fashion. She has always needed to prove herself, but now the need has gained jagged edges. Melbourne is worried about her, of course, but he is also jealous of how much she longs for the prince’s good opinion. It doesn’t mean she cares for him, he reminds himself. He’s just triggering every childhood memory of criticism and uncertainty she has. But even so, Lord Melbourne is jealous, because every moment she spends honing her skills on the piano is a moment she does so for Albert.

 

He wishes that Albert understood all of the things that she does, every day. The work, the engagements, the hours of discussion to learn and understand. That the time the prince sees as gossiping is her building up a network to support herself. That the time spent in ‘frivolous’ entertainments is her only way to enjoy herself, to release the pressure. That she needs that time, that freedom.

 

This new regime of trying to improve herself has taken its toll – she is exhausted and frequently out of temper, even with him.

 

‘ _Why does he hate me?_ ’ she had asked Melbourne two days before, and he had bitten his tongue to curb his first reply.

 

‘ _I’m sure he doesn’t hate you, ma’am. He just… doesn’t know how to express himself._ ’

 

Now, he enters the palace and is directed to her private sitting room. The door is opened for him and closed behind him, despite the fact that she is alone - a privilege which he still treasures - and he finds her curled up on the wine coloured settee, eyes red and swollen from crying and half of her face pressed against the cushioned back as though she were trying to burrow into it.

 

After several seconds in which she doesn’t acknowledge his entrance, he gradually makes his way to her and sits down at the other end of the settee, sweeping his coat out behind him. At some point during his progress her eyes have shifted to watch him, but she maintains her position; now he sees that she is curled around Dash, whose tail gives an occasional muffled  _flump_  against the pillows.  

 

They sit there, he and her, and the world passes by outside.

 

Eventually she licks her lips. Says, in a voice that is more a croak, “Lord M,” and reaches up to swipe feebly at her cheeks with an open palm.

 

“Ma’am.”

 

She watches him, waiting for him to fix this, as he always does. As he must soon give way for someone else to do.

 

“Has something happened, ma’am?”

 

She shakes her head, face scrunching slightly in an effort not to cry.

 

Feeling it a safe bet, he asks, “Prince Albert?”

 

She nods.

 

His heart, an organ that only a few years ago he’d thought dried up and useless, kicks in his chest.

 

“Did the Prince… say something?” he asks.

 

She stares at him, all scared and hurt little girl, and again flames kindle in his chest that Albert can reduce her to this. “Mama,” she eventually whispers, voice thick from prior tears, “said I’m not trying hard enough to please him. To… understand him,” she adds quickly, because she is a queen and shouldn’t have to please anyone.

 

“I see,” Lord Melbourne says gravely.

 

In his opinion, she has already given the Prince countless chances to show his worth, has invested in his tastes and opinions and interests. Has been neglecting her own needs, though of course not her duties, to do so.

 

“I know everyone expects us to marry,” she says, voice still a little choked. “But I – he makes me feel so…”

 

Stifled, she doesn’t say.

 

“Do you like him, ma’am?” He stares down at his hands, resting on his knees, as he asks. They’ve had variants of this conversation every few days since the German princes arrived, because her opinion is ever changing and something that she needs to talk through. It is, occasionally, torturous.

 

“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice is almost a sob. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do, but then he says things or expects things that I…” Her words trail off, and he is left listening to the sound of her uneven breaths.

 

“Perhaps what you need is a day or two without their company, ma’am,” he says slowly. “To allow you some perspective.”

 

Her look is instant and thankful. “Yes,” she breathes. “Could that be arranged?”

 

His mind has already raced ahead. “I’m sure there could be a tour or visit of some kind. Perhaps you will be unable to go because of your obligations, ma’am.”

 

She nods, cheek still pressed against the upholstery, and then brightens. “Windsor!” she says. “Albert was saying how he loves the forest, but that he couldn’t visit without my permission. And if they were gone,” she continues in a tumbling rush, “I would have time to-“

 

Her words cut off, as though she is suddenly aware of how incriminating they are. He smiles at her, letting her know that he understands, and one side of her mouth curls ruefully in return.

 

“We’ll find a way, ma’am.”

 

He should leave her, perhaps, give her time recover herself and think. The dispatches will wait until later, or tomorrow. But he couldn't have convinced himself to move for half of England, so he stays there as she breathes quietly in and out and watches his face. He cannot hold her eyes, feeling the danger of it, so he lets his gaze idly traverse the room, settling here or there for a moment but not focusing on anything in particular. He leans back against the settee and stretches his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. It is something he would do if he were relaxing at home; it is not suitable behaviour in the queen's presence.

 

Next to him there is a muffled noise from Dash, and he glances over to see the dog start to wriggle in her arms.

 

“Dash,” she murmurs, half scolding, but the spaniel breaks free and bounds to the floor, abandoning his mistress. The queen half rights herself to follow the dog, but Dash is already halfway across the room, already out of reach.

 

With a sigh, the queen returns to her folded position, hand reaching for the small, loose cushion in the middle of the settee. Lord Melbourne shifts forward slightly to allow her to retrieve it, and she thoughtlessly pulls it close to her stomach and wraps herself around it.

 

His heart lurches in his chest. He has never seen her in such an unguarded moment – no one, he is guessing, outside of her immediate family, ever has. She is utterly vulnerable. And so alone, for all that he sits here beside her. He cannot touch her, cannot comfort her. And yet she stays here quietly with him, instead of going to find her mother or Baroness Lehzen.

 

“I suppose it is a bad sign,” she ventures after a time. “That I am so happy at the thought of him going away, I mean.”

 

He opens his mouth, but closes it with the words unspoken. Because yes, God yes, it is a bad sign. If Albert makes her this miserable now, what would it be like after they are married? Will she be snuffed out, trying to conform to his ideas of who she should be?

 

“I think it would be wise to consider what your married life would be like, ma'am.”

 

The faintest twitch of an eyebrow. “I had assumed he would spend all of his time staring at old paintings.”

 

He draws another breath, because it is not his place to say this but he will do so anyway. “I am... concerned, ma'am.”

 

She goes still, head tilting back to look at him. “Concerned that we are not suited?”

 

“Concerned that...” his voice rasps a little, betraying him. “That you might not be happy, ma'am.”

 

She stares at him, eyes still red rimmed. “Everyone else seems to think that we will be.”

 

“Forgive me, ma'am, but it is not _his_ happiness I'm concerned with.”

 

It is bold, almost too bold, and for a moment her heart is in her eyes and he thinks he has gone too far. But then they settle back into fondness, and he breathes out again.

 

“Mama says I will learn to love him,” she says, glancing away. Then back again, eyes measuring and astute. “What do you think?”

 

His mouth twitches, and he steels his jaw. “I think you have time, ma'am. It is always better to feel sure about any... course of action.”

 

She considers him for a minute, and this time he cannot tell what she is thinking. “What if he thinks I don't like him and he leaves?” she asks eventually.

 

“I think he will serve at your pleasure, ma'am,” he says quietly.

 

“If he'd done that, he would never have come,” she says a little huffily, then subsides. Her eyes become unfocused, and with a sigh she rubs her cheek against the burgundy cushions and curls her fingers around the one in her lap to bring it tighter to her.

 

He cannot help the sad warmth of his smile, cannot help the tug of his heart.

 

“Oh, Lord M,” she sighs, and then uncoils a little. Her fine blue morning gown rustles as she resettles, more upright and less defensive. “I don't know what to do.”

 

He stays silent.

 

“And you will not tell me,” she says shrewdly.

 

He has to clear his throat before he can speak. “No, ma'am.'

 

“Hmm.” Her eyebrows slant in a frown. “Well, there's no need, I know your opinions perfectly.”

 

“Do you, ma'am?”

 

Her eyes are suddenly very serious, and he has to look away for a moment. When he looks back, she tries a tremulous smile. “You think I should marry him, because it is the right thing to do,” she says.

 

It is difficult to speak. He shouldn't speak. “No, ma'am.”

 

Her fingers pick at the cushion. “It is what they all want.”

 

He weighs his words. “When I said that you should marry, ma'am, it was because you deserve-” his voice cracks a little “- _everything_. I have never thought you should marry simply for political reasons, ma'am.”

 

For a few seconds her gaze runs over his face, drops to his lips. “I wish he would go away again,” she says.

 

He hesitates. “I'm sure once your Majesty makes her decision, he will act appropriately.”

 

Dash returns, sniffing interestedly around the leg of the settee. Completely unthinking, the queen hands the small cushion she is holding to Melbourne and then scoops Dash up in her arms, mumbling happy words to her dog.

 

He turns the cushion slowly in his hands. It is still warm from being pressed against her body, and his palms ease across velvet that has echoes of her written into it. He allows his hands to rest there for a few moments, grasping at the memory of her, before he carefully places it back in its position on the settee.

 

“I suppose,” she says a little ruefully once she has finished cosseting her dog, “that we should look at the dispatches.”

 

He smiles, or thinks he does. It is hard, sometimes, to control his expressions around her.

 


	3. A Hopeless Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you not see that she only feels for him as a cousin?” Lady Portman says quietly, having come to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has accidentally become an AU exploration of the time around when Albert was visiting. Ah well, can't expect things to actually stay on course!

Leopold

 

When he arrives at the Palace that Thursday afternoon, he is directed towards the South Wing, but soon Baroness Lehzen intercepts him in the corridor.

 

“Lord Melbourne,” she says, out of breath but still managing a slight air of disapproval. “Her Majesty is unfortunately unwell.”

 

He stops, casting a quick glance in the direction of the queen’s apartments. “Unwell?” he asks.

 

She’d been out of sorts when he’d last seen her, but hardly-

 

“Yes. It came upon her suddenly yesterday afternoon – just as they were due to depart for Windsor!”

 

His lips twitch ever so slightly.

 

“Really?” he asks gravely. “I am sorry to hear it. Please give her Majesty my very best wishes for her health.”

 

She nods, clearly dismissing him, but at that moment a footman comes to his elbow and says, “A message for you, my Lord.”

 

He takes the neatly folded paper and finds scrawled within, ‘I wish to speak with you. Please come.’ It requires no signature.

 

“The Queen has summoned me,” he says to the baroness, his tone sardonic despite himself.

 

She makes a sweeping gesture with one hand and follows him as the footman leads the way to the queen’s private sitting room, where he‘d last seen her a few days before.

 

The footman opens the door and remains outside, and Lord Melbourne is acutely conscious of the baroness two paces behind him. He moves a little further into the room, finding the queen lying supine on a couch.

 

“Oh, Lord M,” she says, a little faintly.

 

The corner of his mouth quirks, his eyebrow raising just a fraction, because to him she is as transparent as glass. She holds out her hand, however, so he goes to her and kneels, brushing his lips against her knuckles before smoothly rising again.

 

“Thank you for coming.”

 

“Of course, ma’am. But if you are ill then you must rest.” He stresses the last a little, as he can feel Baroness Lehzen’s glare boring into the back of his skull.

 

The queen is wearing one of her plainer gowns, and there is a steaming cup of herbal tea on the small table next to her as well as a book. At a guess, she has been ‘resting’ all day and is bored.

 

“Oh, no.” Her voice trembles a little as though with weariness, but it is earnest too; he can’t help but smile a little, now that his face is hidden from the baroness’ view. “There are things I know we must address today. I shall be well enough to manage for a little while.” She listlessly presses a hand against the cushion as if to raise herself up a bit.

 

“Your Majesty -” the baroness says behind him.

 

“Thank you, Lehzen, you may go.”

 

The queen waits until they hear steps echoing down the corridor outside before her face takes on a slightly mischievous cast, eyes quietly sparkling.

 

“Truly, you look very ill, ma’am,” he says with mock-gravity, and she laughs, then muffles the sound with both hands clapped swiftly across her mouth – though her eyes still shine with mirth. “So?” he asks.

 

“I was terribly apologetic,” she says, still brimming with her own cleverness. “They already had everything ready when I came down with a terrible headache and couldn’t travel. I said that they should go ahead and I would follow as soon as I recovered; I sent them a note this morning saying perhaps tomorrow.”

 

It is maybe not the smoothest deception he has ever seen – he doubts whether her mother or the baroness were entirely fooled. But if it achieves the desired result without causing offence, that is all that is needed.  

 

“Well, I can only hope that your health improves,” he says seriously, and she laughs. “How are you really, ma’am?”

 

“Very well, Lord M.” Though he notices a little tiredness in her voice as she says it. Truly, given her state only two or three days ago, no one should be surprised if she really were sick.  

 

“I’m glad to hear it. What can I do for you today?”

 

“Oh, Lord M,” she says fondly, and rests her head on her hand. “Talk with me a while.”

 

When King Leopold enters, some half an hour later, she is sitting upright - all brightness and smiles. The two of them look up in surprise as he is announced, walking in before she can deny him entrance, and then her expression goes tight and hard.

 

“I see you are looking much better, niece.”

 

“Uncle Leopold,” she says, remaining seated even as Melbourne rises. “I was not expecting to see you here.”

 

“I returned to ascertain your health,” he says coolly. “One cannot be too careful. Baroness Lehzen informed me you were well enough to be closeted with your Lord Melbourne.”

 

The smile on the queen’s face is neutral, polite. “Indeed, Uncle. We had some urgent matters to discuss, and then Lord M was good enough to try and cheer me up.”

 

“Was he?” Leopold asks with an edge of sarcasm. “It is good that you are feeling better – you must come back with me and let Albert  _cheer you up_  instead.” He doesn’t even mention Ernst – clearly behind closed doors her family think there is no need for subtlety.

 

“It would be far more sensible for me to recover for today, and set out tomorrow,” she says. “It is getting late, and my headache has only just started to clear.”

 

“Oh yes,” he says. “I am sure that as soon as Lord Melbourne disappears your illness will return in full force.”

 

They stay in an odd stalemate for a few moments. King Leopold glares fiercely at Melbourne, but the queen has not dismissed him and he will not find an excuse to leave if she wishes him to stay.

 

“Honestly!” she says a second later, cross. “Sit down, Lord M, it’s hurting my neck to look at you. And I will not go with you today, Uncle, but thank you for your concern.”

 

“My concern,” her uncle says, coming two short steps closer. “Is that you are not appreciating the company that you ought, and instead squandering your time on matters that are… beneath you.”

 

Every muscle in Lord Melbourne’s body is tense, but he keeps his pose deliberately relaxed and his face blank.

 

“Are you suggesting that my duties as queen are not important, Uncle?” she says sharply.

 

“I’m suggesting that you are being distracted from them!” he replies in the same tone.

 

Her gaze goes very cool.

 

“We thank you for your concern,” she says, and it is very clear that the conversation is over.

 

Leopold stares at her in irritation.

  
“I will send Albert back to keep you company,” he says, and turns to leave.

 

“No,” she says quickly. Then, more softly, “Let him enjoy the trees. I think I would not be such good company at the moment, anyway.”

 

This earns Lord Melbourne another glare. “Clearly  _that_  you only manage for  _some_ people,” Leopold says, and continues to the door. He stops there and waits, very obviously expectant that he will not be the only one leaving. And it isn’t as though Melbourne hasn’t felt the danger of already being too much in her company today.

 

He gets to his feet, bows over her hand. “Won’t you stay?” she asks quietly.

 

“I really should get back to the House, ma’am.” He smiles at her, feeling the way it creases his face. He hasn’t given a real smile to anyone but her in a very long time.

 

She nods, accepting this, and he and King Leopold walk out together.

 

“I thought you had decided to be wise about this,” Leopold mutters to him as they stride down the corridors.

 

“I am in the service of my queen, Your Majesty.”

 

There is a snort, then, “You are in the service of yourself. She should marry Albert; you know it. Perhaps I should arrange for you to be permanently removed to that house of yours in the country.”

 

After continuing some paces in strained silence, Lord Melbourne says, “Did you know that the Duchess of Kent and Sir John Conroy tried to persuade the Queen to give up her dog when they came to the Palace? Almost forcibly, at one point. I found the Queen’s response intriguing – she fights fiercely for things she holds dear.”

 

Leopold’s lip curls. “Even when they are not what is best for her.”

 

“With all due respect, your Majesty, I believe that she is the only one who can determine where her happiness lies.”

 

“It lies with Albert,” Leopold says curtly. “Anyone can see that.”

 

Melbourne gives him a neutral look.

 

“So.” The king halts, and turns to him. “You are advising her against him, then?”

 

“I am advising her to trust her own judgement, as I have always done.”

 

Leopold gives a small snarl, and moves away. “She has the judgement of a  _woman_ ,” he snaps over his shoulder.

 

“She has the judgement of a queen,” Lord Melbourne murmurs to himself.

 

\---------------------------

 

Ernst 

 

Upon receiving a letter in the morning saying that the queen is travelling to Windsor and he is expected at dinner, Lord Melbourne sighs and reorganises his day. He could send a note back saying he was unable to attend her, of course, but there is little point arguing with her or courting her displeasure.

 

Honesty may compel him to admit that the real reason is that he doesn't _want_  to stay away, not with the situation so unstable.

 

Windsor is… Windsor. His suite is well maintained, as always, though he’s never spent a great deal of time here – the queen doesn’t particularly favour it. The uniform is stiff and uncomfortable, and he hasn’t worn it in some time; she has mentioned on a past visit that he looks very dashing in it, however, and he castigates himself for lingering over his preparations.

 

He finds the party downstairs laughing and talking, Victoria speaking merrily with her ladies while Prince Albert glowers at her from across the room. King Leopold stands beside the prince; Melbourne rather hopes he is talking some sense into him.

 

On seeing him enter the queen’s smile grows wider. “Lord M,” she cries, and comes to greet him. Taking her hand has become an automatic response by now, but never lost its thrill; he kneels and brushes a kiss over it.

 

“Ma’am.” He raises his eyes to meet hers as he stands. “Feeling better, I hope?”

 

Her smile is dazzling. “Oh yes, quite recovered. Thank you for coming tonight.”

 

Prince Albert is suddenly beside them - talking about the state of the country, sharp, barbed words which are perhaps directed at Melbourne but cut the queen also. It is wearying to listen to, and not for the first time he considers taking the prince aside and attempting to give him some advice. Even if it were his place, which it most certainly isn’t, he can tell such an idea would backfire spectacularly.

 

“Thank you, Albert,” the queen says curtly as he finishes his latest analysis of a country he has been in all of a few weeks.

 

“If you cared about your country, you should be glad to hear how to improve it.”

 

There is a slight hush, as the words are spoken loudly. Eyes turn to their small group, but Albert is obviously unconscious of the fact his wording accuses the queen of not caring for England.

 

Her lips part, to deliver a blistering rebuke, Lord Melbourne can’t help but hope, and then the evening meal is announced.

 

He is sitting far enough away from them as they dine that he cannot hear their conversation – except for the parts that become heated. He does note that the queen begins to turn more and more to Ernst. The other Coburg prince has been something of a godsend in their time here – breaking tensions and performing all of the social niceties that Albert seems unable to. His presence throws the behaviour of his brother into harsh relief.

 

Ernst is, of course, the older brother.

 

Lord Melbourne eyes him with sudden interest. There has been, from the beginning, an emphasis on Albert. Clearly the entire family supports that match, as Albert does not stand to inherit anything of his own, but from any other point of view is Prince Ernst not also an eligible match? From what Melbourne knows of him, he is more dissolute in his habits, but he is also personable and appears to be able to have a five-minute conversation with the queen without causing offence.

 

Is Ernst also attempting to woo the queen? If so, Albert is unintentionally his greatest ally.

 

The party separates, the gentlemen retiring to drink port. It is an… interesting collection of people, and not one particularly conducive to peaceful conversation. King Leopold makes his displeasure at Albert’s lack of progress known, Albert makes his displeasure at the queen’s apparent immaturity known, Ernst attempts to mediate but is ignored, and Melbourne sits quietly and watches it all.

 

After a few minutes, Ernst gives up and comes to sit beside him, tilting his glass in a sardonic salute.

 

“Perhaps it is a hopeless case,” Ernst says.

 

In the background, Leopold is still talking and gesticulating and Albert is what could best be described as sulking.

 

“I fear they do not always show their best sides to each other,” Melbourne answers cautiously.

 

Ernst snorts. “You are very diplomatic, aren’t you. I can see why she likes you.” Their eyes meet for a brief second, then the prince returns to contemplating his glass. “My brother is making an idiot of himself. He is a good man; a great one. But, in this case,” and he throws an exasperated glance over his shoulder at the pair behind them, “a bumbling fool.”

 

Lord Melbourne let his answer be heard in his tactful silence.

 

“Yes, exactly,” Ernst agrees, and takes another drink. “I’d say it was getting boring, but it’s all too dramatic to get bored of. Even if I were a betting man-“ which of course Lord Melbourne knew he was “-I couldn’t possible imagine the new ways they would find to offend each other in order to wager on them. Well, for him at least. Victoria is very predictable in what she takes umbrage over.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Oh, yes. Any criticism of you will not be tolerated. She defends you most fiercely.”

 

It shouldn’t surprise him, but a glow stokes to life in his chest nonetheless.

 

“Her Majesty has always been loyal to those she considers her friends,” he murmurs. Remembers her trembling voice, ‘ _You are the only companion I could ever need.’_

 

Ernst eyes him sidelong, and he keeps his expression neutral. “Mmm, I think it is not only that.”

 

“Your Highness-“

 

“No, please. Adept as we all are at dancing around the subject, I feel sometimes it is easier to be a little more direct.”

 

“Like your brother?”

 

They both glance at Albert, who is now drinking and reading a book that he has picked up from the table while the king continues to speak to him. He appears to have no interest in their current conversation.

 

“Perhaps not as direct as that. Albert has always been a proponent of speaking the truth – and his mind.”

 

“The problem with speaking the truth is that one has to assume one knows enough of it to be able to judge.”

 

Ernst gives a half smile, and raises his glass. “You are perhaps right there. But, more seriously, I think he begins to suspect that Victoria’s heart is not available to be won.”

 

The tide of emotions that rises in Melbourne is clamped down after a few seconds. He cannot dwell on this, he must not.

 

“I believe that the queen would be open to an attachment with someone who showed some common understanding with her.”

 

He has always been accused by his opponents of flattering her; that he has won his way into her good graces with a silver tongue. But every compliment he gives her is the truth, and in reality all it ever took to gain her good opinion was to listen to her and treat her as a queen. Neither of which Albert has managed, during his visit.

 

They re-join the ladies a short while later, and Melbourne stands a little off to one side as the queen talks to her cousins. Albert is restricting himself to only the occasional comment, none of which are particularly inflammatory; Ernst makes her laugh. The older prince asks her about what she does during her days, about what she enjoys, about her plans. He makes small comments and observations which make her smile, and Lord Melbourne feels jealousy flare higher in him at every one.

 

“Can you not see that she only feels for him as a cousin?” Lady Portman says quietly, having come to his side.

 

“I see a handsome man charming a young woman, Emma.” And if his voice was intended to be calm, still it emerges somewhat disgruntled.

 

“Then you are not looking closely enough.”

 

He gives a wry half-smile, but looks again. Certainly, the queen's smiles are easy - but they do not seem to hold deep feeling, and Ernst never presses on any of the answers she gives to deepen their understanding.

 

The prince is still helping his brother, it comes to Melbourne slowly; is asking her questions to try and aid Albert in his understanding of her and what to talk to her about. If anything, the realisation sparks anger, because if Albert is not competent to do such a thing himself - and caring enough to do it - then he is no fit husband for her. Even now, he takes none of the opportunities offered - but Melbourne can see him storing the information away, studying it. Perhaps, with enough coaching from his cousin, he will manage at last to engage her interest.

 

It is a depressing thought.

 


	4. Not Her Only Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you stay for a while, Lord M?” Her eyes glint soft blue in the late morning light, almost hypnotic. “I am having trouble picking out what to play.”

Victoria (the piano)

 

Lord Melbourne's company is requested early in the afternoon. Grateful to have dealt with his correspondence promptly, he makes his way down to join the queen in the music room.

 

She is attended by three of her ladies, playing idle tunes on the piano while they sit listening. His eyes are drawn against their will to trace the neckline of her cream gown, to watch the movement of her bare shoulders as she plays. The graceful arch of her neck. Emma catches him looking, of course, catches his tender expression and arches an eyebrow at him in greeting. They are all quiet, however, until the queen's fingers cease their movement and she looks up to find him there.

 

“Lord M,” she says happily, and rises. Her ladies stand too, and he crosses the room to kneel and kiss her hand.

 

“Ma'am.”

 

“Will you stay for a while, Lord M?” Her eyes glint soft blue in the late morning light, almost hypnotic. “I am having trouble picking out what to play.”

 

“However I may be of service, ma'am.”

 

She moves back around the piano, shirts brushing along the side of it with a rustling noise. Her ladies retake their seats and he starts to go to join them but she looks up from her seat with pre-emptive annoyance and says, “No, I need you here.”

 

He cannot keep the expression of self-mockery from his face, but she doesn't see it as he goes to stand beside her.

 

“Shall I turn the pages, ma'am?”

 

“No – well, yes. No, I need you to help me choose.”

 

He moves slightly behind and to one side of her, examining the sheet music perched on the piano. She spreads the scores a little, but otherwise makes no move to help him.

 

The distance between them cannot be more than a foot, yet somehow feels even closer. He could swear that he feels the heat of her radiating outwards.

 

“I do not know what you are in the mood for, ma'am.”

 

She looks at the music from left to right, shuffling the pages for a moment. “What do you think I should play?”

 

“I-” He pauses, the title of one catching his eye. “I believe Prince Albert particularly enjoyed-”

 

“No,” she snaps, and half-twists on the stool to flash a steely gaze his way. “I'm asking what _you_ would like to hear.”

 

He holds her eyes; murmurs, “Forgive me, ma'am.” She settles and turns back to the pages.

 

Leaning in a little closer, he reaches over to rest his fingers on the top of a particular score. His arm passes only inches from her head, and she holds very still. “Perhaps Beethoven?”

 

“I thought you would want the Mozart?” she says quietly. He smiles.

 

“Not today, ma'am.”

 

“Very well, Lord M. In that case you may turn the pages.”

 

He shifts slightly back to the side of the piano again, affording him an excellent position to watch her face; to see the frown of concentration and how she throws herself into the music with abandon. Maybe that is why Albert finds fault with her playing – she is all feeling rather than technical correctness. Lord Melbourne finds he prefers it this way.

 

He doesn't need to turn the pages, because she knows it by heart.

 

\-----------------------

 

 

Victoria (Dash)

 

Later in the afternoon the queen goes riding with the princes and Lord Alfred, and Melbourne watches them go with heavy heart. He should travel back to London - should leave events here to unfold as they will.

 

He stays.

 

The queen and Prince Albert return separately from the other pair, and Lord Melbourne can see as he watches from a window above that there has been a rift between them – their attitudes are cold to each other and they do not seem to speak. Certainly no great romantic attachment has been achieved, and, as ever, a war wages in his breast over the lack of progress.

 

He goes down, somehow compelled to, and finds the queen still standing in the entrance hall talking to a footman. After a moment, Melbourne can make out that it is Dash in her arms, the lively dog unnaturally still and quiet.

 

“Is everything alright, ma'am?” he asks, and she turns to him with tears in her eyes.

 

“Oh, Lord M! Dash is hurt.” And she turns slightly so that he can see one leg bound in linen.

 

Many questions occur, the foremost being 'what happened?' and 'what did the prince do?' He suppresses them temporarily and turns to the unfortunate and bewildered looking footman.

 

“Go and see if we have anyone from the kennels here, man. If not, check with the head groom. Someone at the stables will know what to do for an injured animal.”

 

The queen takes a quick step after the boy, and without conscious thought Lord Melbourne reaches to gently take her elbow, halting her steps.

 

His heart beats a quick tattoo. He shouldn't have touched her. _He shouldn't have touched her._ “Wait until he finds someone who can help, ma'am.”

 

Her glance down at Dash in her arms is agonised, and he can see her consider ignoring him. “But-”

 

“He will find the appropriate person quicker than we can.” Melbourne does not tell her that the stables are no place for the queen - that would merely draw both her ire and her stubbornness. “Wait here with me, ma'am,” he says again, voice gentle, and finally sees her heed him.

 

“He is in such pain,” she whispers, and he takes the opportunity to carefully withdraw his hand.

 

“Can you tell me what happened?”

 

She shakes her head. “I don't know – he went running ahead, and then we heard... Albert said his leg is broken. And then I said – and then _he_ said...”

 

Her breath hiccoughs, and Melbourne suddenly realises she's on the verge of tears.

 

“I'm sure that Dash will be well tended to, ma'am.”

 

Luckily at that moment the footman returns with someone dressed in stable livery who looks competent enough, and who manages to extract Dash from the queen’s arms with a minimum of whimpering from the hurt animal.

 

“We’ll see him taken care of, your Majesty,” the man says, and starts to back away with an awkward bow.

 

“But I must come with you,” she says, as though any other possibility is utterly ridiculous.

 

Lord Melbourne gives a slight shake of his head as the man looks at him in consternation. “Ma’am, it would perhaps be easier and less distressing for them to continue without you.”

 

“But he will be frightened if I am not there!” She has moved a few paces to catch up, and now caresses Dash's head while he licks frantically at her wrist.

 

Moving to stand at her elbow, Melbourne watches for a moment then reaches to gently run a hand over the dog’s side. The fur is soft, but the animal’s chest heaves in distress. “Let them take care of him, ma’am,” he says quietly. “I think they might manage more easily without your presence.”

 

Her look as she turns to him is betrayed, and the other man takes the opportunity to back slowly away again.

 

“Lord M-“ she starts, visibly upset.

 

“You will make them nervous, ma’am,” Melbourne murmurs quietly. “And it is more important that they be able to do the best job they can.”

 

Her eyes are large and slightly scared as she stares at him for a moment. Then, “Yes, that is more important.”

 

Melbourne gives her a slight, encouraging smile.

 

“I believe you have had Dash for a long time?”

 

“Yes.” Her attention stays on the doorway for a long moment then turns to him, apparently willing to be distracted. “Yes. Mother got him from Sir John, but she didn’t want him. So, he came to me.” Her face is still worried, her thoughts still obviously with her dog. “He is so dear to me,” she whispers.

 

He does not wish to promise the animal will be well – a broken leg can be serious – but nor can he watch her distress.  “He is a brave animal, I think,” he says. “I am sure that he will bear this well.”

 

“Yes,” she says, “- very brave,” and reaches to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. “He has always defended me. I was telling Albert that he was my only friend, growing up.”

 

Melbourne stays quiet. He knows that there were other people in the household – the duchess’ previous children, and John Conroy’s, but the fact that she never speaks of them is evidence enough that there was no friendship there.

 

“He was the only one that would listen to me, you see.”

 

“I hope that is no longer true.”

 

“No,” she says, but the smile he had meant to prompt is absent and there is a minute frown in its place. “Albert…”

 

She turns away, and Melbourne's heart clenches. He forces himself to say “I’m glad that the prince listens to you, ma’am.”

 

“Listens to me? No, no he said-“ She darts a look at him, and it is guilty and thoughtful at the same time. 

 

He tilts his head, gently inquiring.

 

She gives a little laugh, one to cover up discomfort. “He was good with Dash, though – he knew what to do. I’m glad I was not alone when he was hurt.”

 

Melbourne nods.

 

“I thought… We argued, and I thought he had left me there for a moment. But he was waiting with the horses.”

 

“I hope that your argument was not serious, ma’am.”

 

She nervously smooths down her dress. “Well, not an argument. He was being most unreasonable.” On receiving no response, she fidgets again. “He says that I spend too much time with you.”

 

“Does he, ma’am?”

 

They do, of course. Spend too much time together. He has long known it, and she has been told it and then chosen to ignore it before. Obviously, it suddenly means something again, coming from  _Albert_.

 

“But I rather think I am capable of deciding for myself who are suitable companions. And you are most suitable, Lord M.”

 

He can’t help a twitch of a smile at that, a slightly wry “Thank you, ma’am.”

 

“He is acting like a jealous boy,” she says, and it is true. “Except that he doesn’t even like me, and there is nothing between us-“ she doesn’t specify which  _us_  “-so he can have no reason to do so!”

 

“Men are rarely reasonable about such things, ma’am.”

 

He certainly isn’t.

 

“He doesn’t make any sense,” she says, passion creeping into her voice. “And I am tired of it.”

 

“Perhaps, ma’am, you ought to tell him so.” It is a daring comment, and anyone else would have been castigated for overstepping themselves. From him, she takes it with a thoughtful frown – but then perhaps she is still distracted over her dog’s injury. Proof that it may be the latter comes with another distracted glance over her shoulder.

 

“How long will they be, do you think?”

 

He would suggest she move to another room. That she change her garments, which have small smears of Dash's blood dark against the blue fabric. The look in her eye, however, suggests that she will not be moved.

 

“I will wait with you, ma'am, until there is news.”

 


	5. Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Albert-”
> 
> “How can you possibly expect me to believe that there is nothing going on when you spend so much of your days alone with him?”

Albert

 

Things come to a head with the younger Coburg prince two days later.

 

They are still at Windsor, the queen being too worried for Dash to think of travelling yet. Lord Melbourne has also remained - despite all sense and reason calling him back to London - because she has asked him to, and has therefore suffered through two days of watching the strained truce on all sides; irritated glances from Prince Albert, hurt silences from the queen, and peace-making attempts by all of her relatives.

 

She invents items of business for the two of them to discuss on more than one occasion, just so that she can excuse herself from the roomful of them. Lord Melbourne shouldn't encourage this, he knows, but he can't help but want to grant what little peace is available to her. Once they are finished with whatever business there might be, she lingers, talking, walking around the room, running her fingers over the edges of bookshelves.

 

She is a very tactile person, he has noticed.

 

On Tuesday, they spend an hour or so in one of the smaller reading rooms going through the dispatches sent to them from town. Just as they are leaving, he and the queen are intercepted by a familiar brusque voice.

 

“I should have expected to find you together.”

 

The smile fades from the queen's face, and Melbourne looks up to find Prince Albert bearing down on them from a few metres away.

 

“Albert,” she says, surprised.

 

The prince seems tense, impatient. His eyes flicker between Melbourne and the queen, and his mouth opens and closes as he seems to consider and discard a number of things to say.

 

“We were just going through the dispatches.” The queen's tone is deliberately pleasant. It seems to be exactly the wrong thing to say, however, as Albert's expression becomes tight and distant.

 

“You know, Victoria,” the prince says, “I have had enough of your protestations of innocence.” He gestures between the two of them. His meaning is abundantly clear.

 

“Albert-”

 

“How can you possibly expect me to believe that there is nothing going on when you spend so much of your days alone with him?”

 

“I expect you to believe that I am doing my duty as queen.”

 

“Really. So _devoted_ to your duty. And yet I see such staggering suffering amongst your people, which you seem entirely ignorant of.”

 

The queen’s eyes flash with fury; her jaw tenses. “How dare you!”

 

A quick scan of the corridor reveals it is clear of listening ears – at least currently.

 

“I think –“ Melbourne begins, about to suggest they move elsewhere.

 

“No.” Albert raises a pointing finger; shakes it at him. His face is stern, and his voice grows more heavily accented as he talks. “Enough from you, I think. It is  _you_ poisoning her mind – you whose every move she follows. I wish to hear from  _her_.”

  

“Albert-“

 

“You do not even seem to want me here!”

 

The prince sounds so _young_. It is an unwelcome reminder, not that Melbourne needs one, that she is even younger.

 

“Of course I want you here,” the queen says, as though the accusation has no merit. As though she hadn’t told Melbourne a week before that she wished he would go away.

 

Albert huffs out a laugh. “You certainly don’t show it – spending all your time closeted with someone else.”

 

And now her eyes spark again. “You cannot dictate to me how I spend my time – particularly not when it comes to business with my prime minister.”

 

“If only that is all it was.” He searches her face for a moment, and it seems to spur him to say, “If we were married, you would not behave in such a -“

 

“We will _not_ be married,” she snaps, and silence falls. She takes a quick breath, mouth setting into a stubborn line. “And if you thought that the way to convince me was to tell me how to conduct myself as queen, then you are very much mistaken.” Another breath, and her face smooths out. “We no longer require your company.”

 

“Victoria-“ Albert starts, but she interrupts him flatly.

 

“I expect you have been wishing to leave for some time. Please do so.”

 

The prince looks at her, at Melbourne, at her again. A muscle is twitching in his cheek, and he shifts urgently on his feet. “This was a waste of time,” he mutters finally. “You are too enamoured of your Lord Melbourne to see anything else.”

 

Melbourne sees the way her fingers grip her skirts, but she doesn’t dignify the prince with a reply and after a moment Albert jerkily turns and retreats.

 

She lets out a long breath, and turns angrily away.

 

“How dare he?” she asks, seething, and Lord Melbourne keeps pace with her as she marches away. “How dare he say that he would restrict me after we were married? I am the queen!”

 

Melbourne wisely does not speak.

 

He walks beside her, hands clasped behind his back, and listens as she expounds for some minutes on Prince Albert’s unfortunate manners, person, education, and finally finishes with “ _He’s just a silly little boy,_ ” to which Melbourne can offer no rebuttal.

 

Finally, she turns to him with a sigh. “I apologise, Lord M.”

 

He gives her a small smile, sympathetic. “Not at all, ma’am. He should not have spoken to you in such a way.”

 

“No.” She pauses. “Mama will be angry. And my uncle.”

 

“Do you believe you made the right decision, ma’am?”

 

She meets his eyes, her face suddenly clear. “Yes. I have… I have known for a while, I think.”

 

He nods, and they continue walking for a minute.

 

“I do not love him,” she says suddenly, and his heart beats a little faster.

 

“No, ma’am?”

 

“No. I wanted him to like me, I think. I liked the attention,” she says a little slower, and he can see her reflecting back on the past few weeks. “But I do not care for him. It was never love.”

 

She says it with such certainty; as though, at all of twenty, she knows everything that love can be. Melbourne has experienced so many kinds of it – his own feelings have gone through such evolutions, continue to do so – that the corner of his mouth tugs upwards to hear her certainty.

 

“Then I believe you made the right decision, ma’am.”

 

“You do?” Only then does he realise that she has been hoping for confirmation, for support, and immediately wonders if, in this matter, he is too biased to have given it.

 

“If you found that the prince was not whom you wanted to spend your life with, ma’am, then it was only right that you tell him.”

 

She settles, her face evening back into acceptance. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” she says to herself. Then, “I did not wish to marry him.”

 

He nods, and they continue side by side.

 

\-----------------------

 

 

Victoria 

(Due to a slightly alternative series of events in this fic, certain conversations never occurred. And, well, here's one of them)

 

They stay at Windsor, though King Leopold, Prince Ernst and the Duchess of Kent all leave the day after Prince Albert’s hasty departure. Lord Melbourne, having travelled to London for the day to organise some urgent affairs, returns in the evening to find their party gone and the queen in a churlish, petulant mood – though he notices her efforts to tamp it down and does his best to tease her into better humour.

 

The following day the remainder of them ride out, her four ladies and Lord Alfred forming a second party some ways behind the two of them.

 

For much of the ride they are in silence, which is not so unusual for the queen of late; admiring the fineness of the day and the surroundings. Still, she has turned to him several times with a quick intake of breath as though she is about to speak, only to subside with some commentary about the landscape.

 

He wonders if she is regretting her decision.

 

“Lord M,” she says finally.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

“What is it like – being married?”

 

She asks her question with artless curiosity, but he knows from the time it has taken her to ask it that she is aware of its difficulty.

 

“I imagine it’s different for everyone, ma’am.” But he can already see she is dissatisfied with his answer. “It brings a… closeness, I suppose.”

 

“You loved your wife.” Her eyes are intent on his face.

 

He finds he has to clear his throat. “Yes, yes I did.”

 

“But people do not always marry for love.”

 

“No. No – frequently it is for money, or connections, or for heirs.”

 

“Or politics,” she adds distastefully, and he smiles at her a little ruefully.

 

“And for that, ma’am.”

 

“Were you happy? Before she…” The queen stops, but he can still hear the words ‘before she left you’ tripping off her tongue. Followed by an echo of _‘I would never do such a thing,’_ which he holds too close and remembers too often for his own peace of mind. 

 

He clears his throat again. “Perhaps to start with. We were… very different people; one doesn’t always know, before a marriage. And Caro… there were difficulties. I spent far too much time focusing on my career.”

 

Her thoughts seem to turn inwards. “As I would have to,” she says softly. “Surely any husband of mine would feel that I did not care for him, that I could not put him first.”

 

“You are the queen, ma’am,” he says carefully. “I imagine any man worthy of you would accept the demands on your time rather than resenting them.”

 

“But you are prime minister. Surely she should have accepted that.”

 

“I was not always prime minister, ma’am. When I was younger…” he shakes his head.

 

“What if I married and my husband tired of me?” she asks, and his heart aches. “Mama said that many men take mistresses – what if Albert had done that?”

 

His grip on the reins tightens. “Did you ask him?”

 

She gives him a shocked look. “No.” And then a moment later, “Besides, he would have just gotten angry at me again. But Mama said all men do.”

 

For a brief moment, Lord Melbourne wishes the Duchess of Kent would never speak to her daughter again.

 

“Men who take mistresses seldom have happy marriages, ma’am,” he says carefully, “and are looking for consolation elsewhere. I would like to think that you will be loved by your husband, and thus such a situation would not arise.”

 

She ponders this for a while. “You loved your wife,” she says, and a bitter pang floods through him because of course,  _of course_ they are going to have this conversation. “Did you never have a mistress?”

 

So tempting to blame Caro and her infidelity. So tempting to blame a lot of things.

 

“I have had mistresses before, ma’am,” he says, voice strained, because he will not lie to her. “But our marriage… it was very complicated.”

 

She seems to look straight through him, and her voice is strangely assured when she says, “And your love was complicated too?”

 

He gives a slightly broken laugh. “That’s one way of putting it, ma’am. I have since found,” and he cannot look at her, cannot acknowledge this, “that the love I had for my wife wasn’t-“ He stops, cannot finish the sentence. Cannot admit that the aching love he has for his queen has long eclipsed what he felt for his wife. It is different, yes, but it is a constant source of guilt and shame that it is also  _more_.

 

They come into a clearing where dappled sunlight falls through the trees, making it seem like a fairy glade. He somehow gathers his thoughts, and gives the queen a small smile.

 

“Feelings change, over time. Love changes. Many people discover, I believe, that the love they thought sufficient to marry is not strong enough to withstand the test of time. That is why love matches are frequently frowned upon, ma'am.”

 

“Because there should be something left once love has faded,” she says softly.

 

“Yes. And not just a good dowry,” he adds on a lighter note.

 

It draws a brief quirk of her lips, but her expression remains serious. “And yet you say that I should marry someone who loves me.” Something he cannot decipher flashes across her face. “That is what concerned you about Albert, isn't it? You thought that even if I fell in love with him it would fade, and then we would be left arguing for the rest of our lives?”

 

She can read the answer on his face, he knows.

 

“Not all love fades, ma'am,” he says slowly, and unfortunately he thinks the words are imbued with all the things he should not voice. “Sometimes it becomes stronger.” He forces himself to look away, to watch a bird fly past. “I believe it should be possible to find a love that will last. One with affection and support.”

 

They ride on in silence for a minute, hearing echoes of laughter from the party behind them.

 

“Yours was missing the support too, wasn't it?” she asks suddenly, and darts a glance at him.

 

He meets her gaze sadly.

 

“On both sides, perhaps, ma'am. I fear in my case the phrase 'older and wiser' is hard earned. Of course, by the time I had learned the lesson it was... too late.”

 

“I am sorry,” she says softly, compassionately. “I should not have asked.”

 

He gives her a small, pained smile. “I have no secrets from you, ma’am.”

 


	6. Insights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It has been... not entirely without benefit. That Dash was injured.” Lady Portman gives him a quick sidelong look before continuing, “It has offered a distraction.”

Lady Portman

 

Dash is almost fully recovered, but still spends all of his days at Buckingham Palace being cosseted by the queen (and most of her ladies). Currently the dog is sitting in state on a velvet cushion beside her, and she absently pets him as she listens to Harriet speak.

 

Lord Melbourne stands to one side, looking on. He still remembers his first few months as the new queen’s prime minister and private secretary – how full of adjustments they had been.

 

King William IV had been older; an established presence at court. He’d had his quirks, but Lord Melbourne’s interactions with him had largely been formulaic and uninteresting - inasmuch as interacting with a monarch could be uninteresting; there was always the worry that one might say the wrong thing and invite disaster. Queen Victoria has always been incredibly different. As her private secretary, he spent a great deal of time with her and had to learn her ways; how to manage her.  

 

Early in her reign, Dash had accompanied her everywhere. It wasn’t unusual for a monarch to have dogs, of course, but she took him with her to appointments where eyebrows were raised and there were murmurs behind her back about her eclectic behaviour. He hadn’t attempted to suggest she should stop doing so. Indeed, she had expounded to him at great length on that fact that both Sir John Conroy and Lady Flora had tried to persuade her it was inappropriate, and the backlash of feelings was not one he wished to invite against himself. It has since proved a wise decision – while her attachment to Dash has remained strong, she herself has regulated the time that she spends with him, and now he does not accompany her outside her apartments as frequently.

 

Since the accident, however, she finds it hard to be separated from him. 

 

“I think it’s sweet, how fond she is of him,” Lady Portman murmurs as she comes to stand beside him. A shower of rain confines them indoors, which the queen chafes at, but they are a merry party nonetheless. All of the queen’s ladies have become fond of the dog, either out of inclination or necessity, and they fuss over him now in turns.

 

“Yes,” he says. “He certainly receives more of her attention than most people do.” Or most matters of state, he is tempted to add as a tease, but he does not wish to slight the queen even in jest.

 

“Perhaps that is why the German princes left – undoubtedly her devotion to Dash's recovery left them feeling quite neglected.”

 

He eyes her sideways and refrains from commenting. He has no doubt that the queen told her ladies of the abrasive conversation which led to Prince Albert's leaving, and similarly no doubt that they all murmured sympathetically in response, regardless of their true opinions. Though he rather thinks Emma, at least, did not favour the young prince.

 

“It has been... not entirely without benefit. That Dash was injured.” She gives him a quick sidelong look before continuing, “It has offered a distraction.”

 

He sighs. “I feel this is one distraction she could have done without. She has enough worry in her life, Emma, without fearing that Dash could be taken from her.”

 

She nods in response. “It is true that a pleasanter one would have been preferred. But she was... dwelling,” she says delicately.

 

“On what?” he asks gruffly, but of course he knows.

 

“On the rightness of her decisions. It is very easy to second guess oneself when one has a multitude of opposing opinions being thrust one's way.”

 

“At least her uncle has left for Belgium, now,” he says quietly.

 

Lady Portman quickly glances in the queen's direction before murmuring, “Yes, but other sources have become louder to make up for his absence.”

 

“I think she would get on very well if she was left to her own devices.”

 

“No advice at all?” Lady Portman considers this. “I cannot think it would be good for anyone – not having someone to talk things over with. Lonely, too.”

 

“That's not what I meant and you know it, Emma” he says wryly. She gives him a small smile in response.

 

“Well, as long as she has someone impartial giving her _good_ advice, that will have to cancel out the bad.”

 

“My impartiality has been rather questionable of late,” he says wearily. “Nor am I a suitable confidant for some of her problems.”

 

There is quiet for a moment.

 

“Then I fear she speaks of them to no one; I am not so conceited as to think she would confide in us on serious matters she does not entrust to you.”

 

It brings a shameful swell of pride to his heart, because she _does_ trust him so deeply. How could he fail to be moved by that? But it would be ideal for her to have a close female companion – her mother, or a friend closer to her in age – whom she could share things with that she _cannot_ share with him.

 

At least she has her dog.

 

Looking up again, he finds the queen gazing at Dash a little sadly, stroking his side very gently.

 

“Still, I worry sometimes,” he says, and Lady Portman follows his gaze. “He is growing older.”

 

They can all see it, particularly in the wake of this injury. Dash moves with less energy, and his coat is already sprinkled with a few grey hairs.

 

“I know,” Emma sighs. “She loves that dog. She always used to say he was her most faithful companion.”

 

“Not any more?” he asks, and receives a raised eyebrow and a smile in turn.

 

“I think now she has someone else who shows similar faithfulness and devotion.”

 

“That is unkind,” he says, but his lips twitch with amusement because it is also not untrue.

 

“Of course, Dash would never try to abandon her for her own good,” Lady Portman continues, “or think that he is unworthy of her.”

 

He slants a glance at her, and she smirks back unrepentantly.

 

“You know the situation very well,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know why you persist.”

 

“How can I not,” she murmurs to him, “when I see such unhappiness at separation? Surely if you were to-“

 

“She is the queen, Emma,” he cuts in, immediately repenting his tone of voice. The queen looks up for a moment, distracted by the loudness of their conversation, before her attention returns to her dog. “Even were all other factors-“

 

“What other factors?” she says dismissively. “You cannot still be so caught up on your age – or your position? I don’t know how it has become so firmly entrenched in your head that this is something impossible, but it _isn’t!_ ”

 

“She deserves better,” he hisses. “She deserves an equal – for God’s sake, Emma, you know I’m too old for her!”

 

“You would be happy,” she murmurs back, seeming unmoved. “Both of you. Why would that be so wrong?”

 

“Even if the Tories  _wouldn’t_  throw a fit, even if it wouldn’t cast a shadow over her reign, you know that-“

 

“Has it ever occurred to you,” she cuts him off, and waits until he has composed himself before she continues, “that perhaps she cannot be happy with anyone else?”

 

A beat of his heart passes painfully, then another. He switches his gaze across the room and stares fixedly at an ugly watercolour.

 

“You overstate my importance rather vastly, I’m afraid.”

 

“No,” she replies, a little sadly, “I don’t think that I do,” and abandons him to go and join the queen.

 

\----------------------

 

 

The Duchess

 

Until the queen is married, she is obliged to have her mother living at the palace. Lord Melbourne once tried to use this as a sly argument to encourage her to consider marriage, but she had been unimpressed.

 

The queen’s relationship with her mother continues to fluctuate. There is still resentment and hurt there, and frequently the duchess will not be seen by her daughter, but there are occasional moments of softening, too. The removal of Sir John from her mother’s acquaintance has naturally made strides in healing the breach.

 

He comes upon them one afternoon, both of their heads coming up at the announcement of his title. They are sitting together on a divan, the queen’s legs drawn up beneath her, and her mother is holding her hands. She squeezes them, now, and says something quiet to her daughter, who looks back at her with something he can't quite interpret. Sorrow, perhaps.

 

His withdrawal from the room is halted by the queen’s quick, “No, Lord M, please stay,” and so he gives a half bow of obedience and moves further into the room. He should greet her properly, of course, but instead comes to stand some feet in front of her and waits for instruction.

 

“Oh, do sit down, Lord M,” she says. Her mother releases her hands at the same moment, turning forward to face him more formally, and he selects a spot opposite them to sit.

  
  


“We were just discussing my daughter's marriage,” the duchess says, her manner a mixture of archness and confrontation. The queen's eyebrows draw together a little, but she says nothing. “She and Albert need a little time to consider things; that is understandable.”

  
  


“Mama,” the queen says, unhappily.

  
  


“You will understand when you are older – you are so young, now. Too young, still, perhaps,” the duchess murmurs. “I thought you were ready, that you had outgrown childish-”

  
  


“It is not childish to recognise that we would be unhappy together, Mama.”

  
  


Lord Melbourne's discomfort at being present for this intimate conversation brings him to his feet. “I should leave you to your discussion.”

  
  


“No.” And now the queen stands, rose coloured skirts swirling out around her. “Please stay.” Her look entreats him. “I have said all I wish to on this matter, Mama.”

  
  


The duchess looks up at her daughter in sadness and disappointment, but sighs and gives a slight nod of her head. “Perhaps you can meet again in a year,” she says. The queen's mouth tightens, and with false brightness the duchess adds, “Or perhaps you shall find another suitor?”

  
  


Melbourne reads that the queen is not particularly more comfortable with this line of conversation. Still, she sits rather than sending her mother away, and he slowly retakes his seat as well.

  
  


“There are many fine, eligible young men who would very much like to spend more time with you. In fact, I was speaking the other day with-”

  
  


“Enough, Mama!” The weary sharpness in her voice seems to conceal more – almost tears - and she looks away. Is she upset over Albert, Melbourne wonders, or just her mother's unrelenting pursuit?

  
  


“I was just-”

  
  


“I do not want to marry anyone at the moment. I have heard enough of marriage!”

  
  


“Oh, Drina.” The duchess' voice softens. “I know that you think Albert did not like you, but that is untrue, and no reason to-”

  
  


The queen is on her feet in an instant, and Lord Melbourne rises with her. “I am no longer interested in your views on my marriage,” she says icily. “And now we have wasted enough of Lord Melbourne's time; he and I have business.”

  
  


She stares her mother down until the duchess withdraws, then stays standing, glaring at the door as though in preparation for re-entry.

  
  


“I think she might be gone, ma'am,” he says gently, and her gaze switches to him with no less intensity. He bears her scrutiny for a moment, then slowly walks across the room until he is standing beside her. “I take it things have not yet... settled, ma'am?”

  
  


She gives him a slightly exasperated glance. “No,” she says. “Things have not yet 'settled.' As though I do not know my own mind!” she cries, a moment later. “Almost every day there is some new letter from my uncle Leopold, detailing Albert's every movement. I begin to wonder if the prince _is_ clockwork, because my uncle tells me in such detail of his every other doing that I am bewildered by the lack of hearing his use of the chamberpot.”

  
  


“Ma'am!” He half chokes on a laugh.

  
  


“Well,” she says mulishly, then cants a slight smile at him. “How much detail could I possibly need about his latest haircut – and why do they think I have nothing better to do with my time than hear about it? How on earth is this supposed to induce me to marry him?”

  
  


“I shall very seriously note down Your Majesty's views on discussing haircuts, ma'am.”

  
  


“I wish you would! And then inform my mother about it. Urg,” she says, frustrated. “Sometimes I think I could scream!”

  
  


“I wouldn't suggest it,” he says mock-seriously. “The guards might think someone was making an attempt on your life, and shoot me in the confusion.”

  
  


She stares at him for a moment, and then her lips twitch and she is laughing gaily. “Oh, Lord M,” she says. “What would I do without you?”

  
  


“Scream, I suspect,” he suggests helpfully, which merely makes her laugh again. That being his intended object, he is well pleased.

  
  


 


	7. Accidental wooing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, ma’am.”

 A Surprise

 

“I have a surprise for you,” he says, one day as they finish their business. Her eyes brighten with interest, and she turns to him with a smile.

 

“Do tell, Lord M?”

 

He finds it hard to deny her anything, but this time he merely smiles conspiratorially in return. “Perhaps you would care to accompany me on a ride, ma’am?”

 

Her brows quirk in puzzlement, her smile fading as she tries to read his face. He raises his own eyebrows in innocent query, his smile turning gentle, and after a moment she is grinning happily again.

 

“An excellent suggestion, Lord M.”

 

The horses are made ready for them, and he stands admiring the animals as he waits for the queen to return in suitable attire. It is a beautiful day - the summer is lingering this year - and for long minutes he tilts his head back with his eyes closed and lets the sun warm him. He is so lost in his own thoughts that he does not hear her approach; he does not know how long she has been stood some yards away from him until she says, “Lord M?”

 

His eyes blink slowly open, vision momentarily blurred by sunlight, and finds her regarding him from under the wide brim of her hat.

  
  


“Ma’am,” he says, voice a little rusty from not speaking.

 

They mount, her burgundy riding habit sweeping gracefully to the side of her horse as she arranges herself. He has tried, over the years, to tell himself not to watch her, not to look at her, but he has never succeeded.

  
  


They set out into the park, and every time he looks her way his eyes are caught by the of folds of maroon silk cascading down the side of her horse, rippling gently in the breeze. On horseback, no one would be able to tell that she is short – she always sits with grace and poise – and she is now an extremely confident rider, which he takes some little pride in. She, in turn, looks at him frequently in great curiosity, but he keeps his face determinedly blank as they ride down the avenue. She is beginning to wonder, he knows, whether the surprise was merely the ride, and after a while a puzzled frown becomes wedged on her face at the thought. Mild irritation, as well, and he carefully hides his smile and talks about the weather.

 

Her responses become more and more terse, until she finally turns to him with a huff and announces that perhaps she wasn’t in the mood for riding after all.

 

“That’s a pity, ma’am, we’re almost there.”

 

Her face transforms – brightens and eases into a look of delight. ‘There’ implies a destination, and confirms that he wasn’t just teasing her earlier. “Where are we going?” she asks eagerly, and he gives her an indulgent smile.

 

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, ma’am.”

 

She lets the comment slide with an arch look but doesn’t press him further, apparently happy to go along with things once again.

 

They have ridden in a large, looping circle, and now they are approaching the hedged gardens once again. As they come near to one of the archway entrances on this side, Melbourne halts his horse, and she swiftly turns and draws to a stop beside him. The groom that has been trailing some distance behind them rides to catch up, swiftly moving to take their reins.

 

“Perhaps we might continue on foot?”

 

Melbourne dismounts, and rounds the horses to assist her with doing the same. His hands are an all too fleeting presence at her waist, and then the light weight of her settles on the ground, her hands coming up momentarily to steady herself against his chest.

 

He cannot resist the compulsion to tilt his head down to look at her, to gaze upon her upturned face and the brightness of her smile. As many times before, he thinks to himself how lost he is.

 

After a moment he summons the willpower to raise one of his own hands and gently gather hers in his grasp, releasing them off to one side and then smoothly offering her his arm. Her eyes, previously wide and curious, tilt into laughter, and she makes a mock-curtsey before gravely taking his arm. Her lips twitch with suppressed laughter, but they very properly process through the archway as though they were making an entrance to a grand ball. She follows his lead without hesitation, her hand delicate and secure on his arm, and he thinks to himself how few women would follow him into a secluded garden alone given his reputation. The queen has never set any stock in such things, of course; trusts him absolutely.

 

“Oh,” she says with delight, as they round a corner in the path and come across a small grass round. As he had instructed, a large cloth has been draped over the ground, and a footman stands by a small table to the side with a pitcher and covered plates. Lord Melbourne thinks she may never have never been on an informal picnic – certainly not in his time with her - and that she might like this better than a large party with proper tables and chairs and a plethora of servants.

 

“I thought you might enjoy some time out of the Palace,” he admits, as she turns to face him, and her face  _shines_.

 

“A picnic!” she says, and then her smile turns a little softer. “How thoughtful of you, Lord M.”

 

He gives a little tilt of his head towards the blanket in response, and she gathers her long skirts in one hand and runs merrily forward, stopping at the edge to look back impatiently. He holds up his hands as if in defence, chuckles, and then goes forward to join her.

 

She sits in a great cloud of silk skirts, the material puffing up around her as she laughs and tries in vain to smooth it down. He sits more cautiously, lowering himself to the blanket and then moving back until he is further into the centre. She glances over, the full force of her delight apparent, and his lips are drawn hopelessly into a smile once more.

 

He signals to the footman, who brings them both a glass of something refreshing, and then tells the man he may wait outside the maze until called for.

 

“When did you arrange this?” the queen asks, drawing his attention back to her. She takes small, delicate sips of her drink, and leans back on one hand.

 

“Yesterday, ma’am,” he admits. “I heard that it was likely to be fine.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, and he ducks his head as a smile plays around his lips.

 

They stay there for some time, eating slices of cold pie and apple tarts, then he watches her as she lies back on the blanket and plucks idly at the grass with her fingers, gazing at the small fluffy clouds overhead. She is so happy, and it brings him such pleasure to make her so. It occurs to him, not for the first time today, that his are the actions of a lover, not a friend. But neither are they unusual; their relationship has always skirted the bounds of propriety. He waits for the guilt that usually accompanies any such musings, but this time it doesn’t come. Perhaps her sheer delight in this small indulgence is enough to offset the knowledge that he should not be doing this, should not be allowing his affection for her to overcome his common sense yet again.

 

“Do you ever wonder what heaven must be like?” she says some little time later, still staring up at the sky.

 

He, leaning back and propped on one elbow, looks over. “Heaven, ma’am?”

 

“Yes,” she says, almost wistfully. “What it must be like there. Free from everything, able to be with the people you love.”

 

He glances upwards himself. “I think-“ He stops, clears his throat. “I think about my boy, sometimes,” he says. “I like to imagine him, happy and safe. Playing with the angels, and other children.”

 

She smiles dreamily. “I’m sure he is well cared for, Lord M,” she says, and for a moment he blinks back tears.

 

“You would have liked him, I think,” he says, unable to stop himself. “He was very curious. And though he was not in good health, he loved to play outside when he could – he was always getting dirty.” His eyes flick to where she has accumulated a healthy pile of blades of grass on the blanket.

 

She brushes them aside with a playful look. “Lord M! What are you implying about your sovereign?”

 

“Why, only that she has an affinity for nature, ma’am. A… closeness. Why, indeed, only a few months after I met her, she mentioned to me that she would like to roll around in the grass and climb a tree-“

 

He cuts off as she bats at his shoulder with an outraged, “ _Lord M!_ ” and then laughs in amusement.

 

“I remember it very clearly, ma’am,” he says seriously, and she laughs again.

 

“Alas, so do I,” she says. “I remember it was the first time I had ever confessed such a desire to someone and not been reprimanded.” Her voice goes quiet. “What did you think of me, then?”

 

“I thought that you were… full of life, ma’am. Completely and utterly yourself.”

 

“Not too childish?” she asks, an edge of insecurity flashing through.

 

He considers his words carefully. “From the first moment I’ve known you, ma’am, you have had a great responsibility on your shoulders. I have seen you meet it with courage and determination; I have never seen you as a child.”

 

She relaxes a little beside him, clasping her hands across her stomach.

 

“Maybe heaven is to be a bird,” she muses. “To be able to fly far and wide and see everything you choose.”

 

“Not a palace dog, ma’am?” he asks with a smile in his voice, thinking of Dash. “Well-fed and petted and with a warm roof over your head?”

 

She laughs. “That may be your dream, Lord M, but mine…”

 

“I know, ma’am.” There is understanding in his voice, and resignation. He cannot grant her the freedom she desires. She is the queen.   

 

“Still,” she says after a moment. “Even the palace dog may come out to the gardens once in a while and look up at the sky.” She tilts her head to face him and they share a long look, her eyes searching his.

 

“I think the sky is all the more precious to those that are unable to fly to it,” he says softly.

 

\----------------------

A Conversation

 

He finds her in the portrait gallery, examining a painting of herself. There is no indication that she has noticed his arrival, so he comes to stand quietly beside her and looks up at her chosen subject. It is a painting, done perhaps a year into her reign, of the queen sitting half-sideways and looking at the painter with her face lit from the side by sunshine. He can’t help but smile as he looks at it; it has always been one of his favourites.

 

“Lord M,” she says eventually, and he glances over at her.

 

“Ma’am.”

 

“Sometimes I wonder how people will remember me, in years to come.”

 

He turns his attention back to the painting, hung high on the wall in a gallery full of royals, in a room full of history.

 

“Monarchs tend to be remembered by their deeds, ma’am.”

 

“I fear I shall not do much to be remembered by.” Her tone is whimsical, and her words surprise a laugh out of him as he thinks back on the few years of her reign thus far. Not uneventful at all, either at home or internationally.

 

“I don’t think that’s something you’ll have to worry about.”

  
  


One side of her mouth curls up in a pleased smile.

 

“Well,” she says, “hopefully I won’t have to do anything as odd as some of my relatives to earn my place in history.”

 

“You have no desire to keep an elephant in the palace, ma’am?” he teases, and her laugh rings out.

 

“No indeed, Lord M.”

 

“Not even a small one?”

 

He treasures the lightness of her eyes, the merriness of her smile. It has been rarer of late, as the cares of her position and the fallout of the prince’s visit and departure have weighed on her. He has taken Lady Portman's words about distractions to heart, and done what he can.

 

“How would you like to be remembered, ma’am?” he asks after a moment, and she turns to face him.

 

Her mouth opens as if to speak, then she frowns. “I have thought about it before, of course,” she says slowly. “But perhaps never realistically.” The words conjure a vision of a young Victoria, daydreaming of being loved and remembered by her people. His smile in response is a little sad.

 

“It is hard to predict the things that history will grasp on.”

 

She makes a small non-committal hum. “I suppose I want to be thought of as any monarch does – someone who rules the country justly and well, and cares about her people.”

 

“Then, ma’am, I’m sure as long as you rule according to those principles, you cannot help but be remembered for them.”

 

She smiles again, but reluctantly. “Now you are humouring me, Lord M.”

 

“Not at all, ma’am.” He raises an eyebrow just slightly, and knows she can hear the teasing humour.

 

“I fear I will be remembered for making a mess of things,” she says after a moment, almost to herself.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

She glances at him, then away. “This whole thing with Albert.” There are a few seconds of silence, then, “Everyone is so convinced I have made a huge mistake.”

 

“Not everyone, ma’am,” he says quietly. “I fear that you are hearing from a rather biased pool of people.” Which elicits a small smile. “I think you’ll find many of the politicians are relieved.”

 

She huffs. “Well, that is no help. They still want me to marry someone, and they will be discontented whomever my choice.”

 

He nods to acknowledge the point. “Still, perhaps there are choices that would be more acceptable to both them and the people.”

 

She turns and begins to walk along the gallery. He falls into place beside her, measured steps fitting perfectly alongside hers.

 

“Will you present me with a list of suitable princes, then?” Her voice is a little sharp, but not angry.

 

“Oh, I think my matchmaking days are over, ma’am. Besides, you had mentioned that you did not want to marry anyone at present...”

 

She gives him a slightly sardonic look.

 

“Though of course, if Your Majesty wishes me to…” he adds. “I know an eight year old who would be an eminently suitable choice.” And she bursts out in laughter, eyes dancing.  

 

“Perhaps not,” she says very primly, once she has recovered herself, and his expression softens.

 

“No, I am quite resolved to let you follow your own heart.” Hopefully it will lead to someone who will treat her as she deserves. “When you meet someone that you love and trust, ma’am, I think that you will know it is right.”

 

She appears to consider this for a moment. “It is so hard to get to know people properly – they are all so stiff and formal, and I hardly know what they think of me unless I catch them unawares. Like Prince George,” she adds, and he wonders once again what the Prince of Cambridge had said to her to so earn her ire.

 

“You’ll find a way, ma’am. Anyone truly worthy of you should make the effort.”

 

“The effort to speak to me?”

 

“To get to know you, ma’am. To allow you to know them.”

 

She sighs wearily. “Yes, because that worked splendidly with Albert.”

 

“Well, you can get to know someone and discover you are not compatible. And in the Prince’s case, I feel he did not try particularly hard to get to know  _you_.”

 

“So, he cannot possibly have been worthy of me?” she asks with a lilting smile.   

 

He keeps his expression and voice serious. “Precisely, ma’am.”

 

Her look turns a little wondering, a little curious.

 

“You should be careful with your criteria, Lord M. I find that the only person the description fits is you.”

 

His own smile is warm and fond, as susceptible to her flattery as always.

 

“I think that is untrue, ma’am.”

 

She halts, and looks at him most earnestly. “No. You are the first person in my life who has listened to me, who has known me.” His heart gives an unsteady thump. “I think I shall never find such friendship with anyone else.”

 

Her look in his direction is small but content, and he feels a chill go through him.

 

“I fear that you have a poor sample to judge from,” he says after a moment, feeling numb. “We shall have to broaden your acquaintance.”

 

“I think I have met every eligible candidate in Europe at one time or another,” she says dryly. “But perhaps I do not need to keep looking. Perhaps I have already found the person I need.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we're now headed full tilt at drama and romance and angst :)


	8. Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their conversation in the portrait gallery has brought home the fact that his actions have left her drifting, unable to move on. Still cherishing some small hope that things between them could be… different.

“ _Perhaps I have already found the person I need.”_

 

The words echo through his head over and over. Has he not, over the years, suggested that she might not marry; that she could live merely with companionship? _His_ companionship. It would not be enough for her though. She _should_ marry, he was right about that. She should marry a young prince who will cherish her as she should be cherished. And yet here they are, and the fact that they have come full circle around to this mires him in guilt.

 

He knows that the steps he has taken since the queen visited him that day long ago at Brocket Hall have been inconsistent; knows that he shouldn’t have sent flowers, shouldn’t have said half the words that have fallen from his lips. He should have let her go, rather than turning her away and then grasping at straws. It has confused things and drawn out the hurt, all because he found that he couldn’t leave her thinking she was unloved, unwanted. Their conversation in the portrait gallery has brought home the fact that his actions have left her drifting, unable to move on. Still cherishing some small hope that things between them could be… different.

 

But he is nothing more than a washed up politician, devoted and faithful, perhaps, but of no other use to her. No  _good_ for her, for all that she is wilfully blind to the fact. All of this time he should have been trying harder to encourage her towards a husband, where instead he has shamefully indulged his own wishes to spend time with her. It has been badly done, and remorse floods over him now.

 

He stays at Devon House for three days, sinking into drunkenness and indolence, until a summons from the House forces him to engage with the world again. The following day he receives a note from the Palace – the third such he has received in the last few days – stating that since he is apparently no longer ill he is expected promptly. Claiming illness was, in hindsight, a mistake; the queen needs to learn that he will not be present every day any more, that things cannot continue as they have been. He needs to tell her so himself - he knows that - but he can already picture the hurt shine of her eyes so he leaves the note lying on his desk and goes to pour himself a measure of port.

 

By early evening he is already well into his cups, turning down supper in favour of sitting morose and idle in his study. He eyes the piles of papers: several years accumulation of writing and study mixed among political treaties. He doesn’t spend enough time here, has neglected so many other aspects of his life since the queen’s accession.

 

The last time he tried to leave, she would not let him go.

 

The thought is still echoing round his head when there is the sound of a throat clearing in the doorway, and he slowly raises his head to make out the disapproving presence of his butler.

 

“I’m fine, Jenkins,” he mumbles.

 

There is a pause, then, “The Queen, sir,’ his butler announces with heavy irony.

 

The words don’t sink in, resonating in Melbourne's ears like horrific cannon fire, and then her petite form is rounding the door. Only a few of the candles are lit, and the sheen of her cream coloured gown makes her look almost spectral for a moment; a phantom come to haunt him in the night.

 

He blinks. Blinks again.

 

“Ma’am,” he manages at last, voice rusty.

 

“Lord M.” There is a small frown on her face, creasing the space between her eyebrows, and his eyes fix on it as a familiar and well-loved object. She looks fractious. Tired. _Wonderful._ “You did not answer my summons.”

 

He belatedly lurches to his feet. Has to subtly put out a hand to steady himself on the arm of his chair.

 

“I-“ He stops, runs his hand over his lower face and tries to drag the scraps of his reasoning back into some form of order. “I wasn’t aware it was an urgent matter, ma’am.”

 

The frown fades into bewilderment. “I wanted your opinion on something,” she says, and he can hear the hurt because he hadn’t gone to her. He almost always has in the past, after all.

 

“I had things I needed to take care of here. And I know that you are entirely capable of making decisions without me; there is no need to humour an old man.” He tries to smile to soften the words, but sees the irked little frown return.

 

“You are my prime minister,” she says sharply. “Surely it is your duty to advise me on such matters?”

 

He holds her eye for a brief second before he looks away. “Then you have my deepest apologies, ma’am. I certainly never meant to leave you uninformed about any matter of state.” She shifts, folding her hands in front of her, and he knows immediately that it was  _not_  an important matter, nor one that he needed to be present for. No, he was right to stay away.

 

“You said you were ill?” She glances around the room. “I am glad to see you are recovering.”

 

The large amount of alcohol he has consumed swims through his head. “Alas, your Majesty, I find that I am not entirely recovered,” he says after a moment.

 

Her look changes to one of open concern, and she takes a few quick steps closer. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she says. “My ladies tell me you visited Parliament today – you certainly shouldn’t have done so in that case. You always tell me it gives you a headache.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he cannot quite manage a smile. “Ma’am,” he starts, but she interrupts.

 

“Have you seen a doctor?” she asks earnestly. “I could have mine sent for? Is it very bad?”

 

He drops his eyes, already muttering denials, but his confounded butler speaks up from where he still lurks near the doorway. “I believe sir has already been self-medicating,” he says,  _and if the man didn’t have a long and faithful history of service…_

 

“Thank you, Jenkins!” Melbourne says harshly, and the man withdraws with a quick nod.

 

The queen’s eyes have already scanned his surroundings, however; have already found the open decanter of port, mostly empty, and the glass, half full. She glances at him, then at the glass, then at him again.

 

“You have been drinking?” Her voice is rich with the disapproval that can only come from a twenty-year-old with little knowledge of the world.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees.

 

“I take it from the butler’s comment that  _this_  is the nature of your current illness?”

 

He gazes at her, even and measured.

 

“Lord M,” she cries, indignant at his lack of response. “You would not answer my summons because you were sitting here...” She gestures, encompassing the idea of him getting drunk with scorn and judgement. He isn't sure if he has it in him to care at the moment, though he distantly knows it would burn at any other time. That he will be heartily ashamed of himself in the morning.

 

“Well, why not?” he asks, slightly sarcastically. “A man can do as he likes in the privacy of his own home, can he not?” Which prompts him to glance down at his own attire, to find his cravat long abandoned and the neck of his shirt loose and gaping. On looking up again he sees that her gaze has dropped too, that her lips have parted slightly as she examines him.

 

“You are my prime minister,” she says again.

 

“I am a man, ma’am, same as any other. I have the same vices, the same flaws.”

 

She blinks rapidly, and for a moment he thinks she might cry. “I will not tolerate such behaviour,” she says, agitated. “I expect better from you, Lord M.”

 

“Then you expect too much, ma’am,” he says passionately, his voice rising at the end.

 

Her face goes stormy and her arms brace at her sides. “You will never behave like this again if you wish to remain in my service!”

 

Seconds trickle past as his mind instinctively thinks of how to soothe her; he could offer a wry apology and a smile, and ease her back into good temper with him.

 

He could.

 

But he is heart-sore, and tired of having to walk this path with her again. They could continue to orbit around each other, she deferring her life and marriage because of foolish loyalty and affection, but they _shouldn't_. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, presented on a silver platter

 

“I do not  _wish_  to serve you any longer,” he says, pushed by some cold inner demon. “It seems rather more trouble than it is worth.”

 

He regrets it – regrets it the moment it is out of his mouth – but keeps his face impassive. This must be done. This tie must be broken.

 

“Lord M,” she whispers, hushed, and her eyes search his in desperate shock as all of her anger drains away like a wave down the shore.

 

“Now, if you will leave me to my evening...” He reaches behind himself for the open decanter of port, almost knocking it over. Picks it up and brings it to his lips, takes a deliberate sip from the rim.

 

Her eyes are wide, disbelieving. “I-“

 

“Can’t you see I don’t want you here?” he says, throwing an arm wide in exasperation. “Your Majesty,” he adds with forced insincerity.

 

He sees the rise and fall of her chest quicken, sees her sudden swallow and the glisten of tears on her cheeks. It takes a moment before she speaks, and then her voice is hard and ice cold.

 

“Your services are no longer required, Lord Melbourne!”

 

His chest hurts and his lips almost form traitorous words, almost ruin all of his work, but he sets his jaw and gives a quick gesture towards the door. “Goodbye, ma’am.”

 

She stares a moment longer, and the hurt and betrayal on her face make him want to reach out, but she is already storming away, her skirts swirling behind her with a rustle that fades as she marches out of the door. Out of his life.

  

It is done.

 

Seconds pass, or minutes, he isn’t sure. He places the decanter back on the side table with a quiet clink, overly careful since he isn’t entirely in control of his movements. Sits back down slowly, like an old man, and groans as his body sinks back into the chair.

 

He will resign.

 

His elbows come to rest on his knees, his head in his hands as he stares at the floor. His eyes are burning, enough so that the grain of the floor is slightly blurry, and there is a rhythmic gasping sound which it takes far too long to identify as originating from his own lips. Between one blink and the next he is on the brink of crying, his breath choked with it - with the loss of the best thing to come into his life since his son had left it. His whole body feels as though it has been put in a vice, as though the air and life is being squeezed from him.

 

What will he do with his days, now? Never seeing her, or worse, only seeing her from a distance but never able to approach. What does he have worth living for? His breath shudders in and out, and he blindly wipes a hand across his eyes. Forces his breathing even; forces some semblance of control.

 

This was for the best. The broken laugh that comes with the thought sounds loud and harsh. Still. He will convince himself, given time.

 

It was for the best.

 

He braces his hands on the arms of the chair and starts to stand, having a vague idea that really he ought to retire despite the earliness of the hour – he will be of no use to anyone tonight. But he hasn't raised himself more than a few inches before he becomes aware of a presence, before he looks up and rocks back into the armchair in stunned surprise.

 

There she is, standing in front of him, watching him. His queen.

 

Again he is momentarily struck by the thought that she might be an apparition; more so, this time, when there is no possible way that she could have returned. Her cheeks are pale, her eyes very wide. He stares into them in hollow desperation, and doesn't believe that she is real until she speaks.

 

“I came back,” she starts slowly, “because I thought that perhaps something had happened and you were not yourself.” He cannot answer her, and after a moment she continues, “That I should not leave you like that, if there was something I could do to help.”

 

He shakes his head, and she crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him with uncertainty.

 

“There is nothing,” he manages to say. A stubborn light enters her eyes.

 

“I would think we were good enough friends that you could tell me what was troubling you? It is not-” her voice grows tentative “-your family?”

 

“No,” he says, and leans forward again. “No, they are well.”

 

“Some matter of business?” But her tone is doubtful, and she already knows that would not cause his state of despair. She hesitates for a moment, then, “You were angry with me.”

 

“No,” he replies immediately, but she shakes her head.

 

“You were,” she says. “For something I have done? Is that why you no longer wish to be my prime minister?”

 

“Ma'am,” he says with difficulty, “I was not – I did not...”

 

She searches his face carefully. “No,” she says after a moment. “I thought you were so angry that you were finally admitting the truth. But now I think...” She pauses. “What you said - you did not mean those words?” He stays silent, but his eyes must give him away because her expression alters to one of curiosity. “Then why would you say such things?” she asks, and he closes his eyes, unable to look at her. “Why would you say that you did not…?”

 

“Please, ma’am,” he says thickly.

 

“I have  _trusted_ you.” Her voice shakes a little, whether with hurt or indignation he can’t be sure. “I have…” She trails off.

 

He opens his eyes, and the sight of her still standing there is almost unbearable. His queen, coming back even after he has done his utmost to drive her away. What has he ever done to deserve her?

 

Somehow, he gets to his feet, takes one step closer. His eyes are locked with hers, and he sees her stubborn refusal to let this go.

 

“You were angry,” she says again. “And then you were sad.” She takes a quick breath, and against all odds intuits the root of the problem. “If my words last week offended or discomforted you, Lord M, then I apologise.” She breaks eye contact. “You should have merely said so, rather than…”

 

“You have not offended me, ma’am,” he manages. His voice a little hoarse, perhaps. All too ready to betray his feelings.

 

Her eyes flick up to meet his, wary. “Then I do not understand,” she says, and he can still hear it in her voice, the pain and sadness.

 

He takes another step, and they are almost toe to toe now; her head tilts back to look up at him. He runs his eyes over her face, so familiar and so beloved. “I think perhaps you do,” he says.

 

Her eyes scan his, her lips part. “You were trying to leave,” she whispers. “But not because you wanted to?”

 

“No,” he confirms, the word wrenched from him.

 

“Because you thought it was best for me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Thought it was best to make decisions for me, to treat me like a  _child_!”

 

“It-“

 

“Well, perhaps you are right, Lord M!” Her voice rises. “Perhaps the only thing that you can do is to desert me, since it seems you do not feel strongly enough to-“

 

Her words break as he seizes her upper arms in his hands, crowding in close so that she fills his vision.

 

“Not feel strongly enough, ma’am?” he murmurs, and God, he is drunk. He is  _drunk_.

 

“Not like I do,” she whispers back, her gaze dropping to his lips. He stares down at her, at that sweet, beautiful face, and tells himself  _no_.

 

He pushes her back a step, trying to catch his breath, but his hands won’t let go of her shoulders; won’t ungrasp this precious thing he has caught.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says harshly, and then pulls her in again; pulls her so close that her hands fly up to balance against his chest, so close that she looks up breathless and  _needing_. “You shouldn’t be here with me.”

 

“But I want to be with you,” she says. So young,  _so naïve_. He lets out a bark of a laugh, releases one of her shoulders to trace his fingers down the side of her face. Her eyes close for a moment, savouring his touch, and he thinks, _I could have this_.

 

“No,” he murmurs, but he lowers his head to kiss her all the same. Stops a hairsbreadth away from her lips, the tip of his nose just nudging against hers. For a moment they breathe together, resting there, and then he manages to pull back, sadness sweeping over him. “No,” he says again.

 

A tear falls from the corner of one of her eyes, their pale blue turning bewildered and lost.

 

“Lord M?” she says softly, and it is almost his undoing.

 

He takes her by the shoulders again, grips her firmly as though his hold is the only thing keeping them apart. “We cannot have this.” His voice sounds broken. “We  _cannot_.”

 

“But-“

 

“ _Please_ , ma’am. Do you think that I want to turn you away? That I don’t – don’t desire your company.”

 

“Why can we not?” There is the edge, there the stubbornness.

 

“You know why,” he cries. “The queen must-“

 

“The queen must, the queen must!” she almost shouts. “Where do you get this list of rules as to whom I should marry, because they seem ridiculous! You are a respectable man, an Englishman, a-“

 

“I am your prime minister!” he overrides her. “And that is all I can ever be. You know that I would never be accepted as your husband! Even if I were not old enough to be your-“

 

“You are not  _so_  old,” she says, almost in tears, and his heart clenches in sympathy. His thumbs smooth over her shoulders, catching on the edge of her dress and then brushing smooth, warm skin.

 

“Old enough, ma’am,” he replies quietly. “Old enough that I would not be with you throughout your reign - and I would not have you left alone.”

 

“I would be left alone regardless of whether we are married, Lord M,” she says with some asperity. “And if that is your greatest objection, it is easily overruled.”

  

“Things cannot be a certain way just because you wish them so!”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “No?”

 

“No.” He is so tired. Tired enough to add a final spur to his words. “Perhaps, as queen, you have grown accustomed to having your every whim fulfilled, but I think you know that I, at least, will always tell you the truth.”

 

“This is not a whim,” she cries, and his fingers tighten on her shoulders for a moment.

 

“Isn't it?” he forces himself to say. “You are too young to know what you want; I think you only want _this_ because you cannot have it.”

 

“Lord M!”

 

“You are acting like a child,” he says damningly, and betrayal and heartbreak wash across her face. His eyes are locked with hers, he sees every minute change of expression until she wrenches backwards out of his hold, face stamped with anger, leaving him standing alone and bereft as she flees.

 

 


	9. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps this is to be his punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame mebfeath for everything

The following morning it’s a toss-up as to which is causing him greater pain: his regrets or his sore head. Every minute he remembers again something that he had said or done the night before, groans with shame and self-disgust, then groans again as the movement induces another round of nausea and dizziness.

 

His valet, Hobbs, displays a complete lack of sympathy, though at least the man has the decency to ply him with coffee and some foul-tasting concoction which his mother apparently swore by.

 

“I’m not at home,” Melbourne says, turning his face away testily as Hobbs stands by with basin and shaving implements. “And I mean to stay abed and inconvenience you all.”

 

“Very good, sir. More coffee?”

 

God, he’d almost kissed her. He’d manhandled her – an offence he’d have gladly called anyone else out for – and insulted her and made her cry, and he’d almost kissed her. A girl half his age, who could barely know what love was. The Queen of England. He couldn’t have made a bigger mess of this if he’d been trying.

 

“What time is it, anyway?” he asks blearily.

 

Hobbs glances speakingly towards the clock on his dressing table, but Melbourne firmly shuts his eyes in response and doesn’t move until the man says, “Half past eleven in the morning, sir.”

 

Running a hand roughly over his face, he sighs and opens his eyes. “More coffee,” he agrees belatedly, and writes off the day.

 

\----------------

 

The day after that, he is catching up on his correspondence when he receives a note from the palace. It is from Lady Portman, saying that his presence is requested, and he eyes it with consideration for some minutes before calling his valet and going to change.

 

Whatever his fate, he will face the consequences of his actions.

 

\--------------------

 

Said consequences seem to be confined to a frosty reception by the queen and the occasional absent frown directed his way as she continues conversing with her ladies. He stands awkwardly at the edge of her circle, guessing that any attempt to converse will be unwelcome but unable to withdraw since she has not yet told him the reasons for her summons.

 

Perhaps this is to be his punishment, to have to hover within sight of her beautiful, fresh face and remember the feel of it under his fingertips; to know that he has utterly ruined the best thing in his life.

 

She will probably never speak to him again.

 

This last, at least, is dispelled when she eventually turns to him and coolly says, “Lord Melbourne.”

 

He half-bows instinctively, raising himself again to see icicle blue eyes staring at him as though they can see straight through him. His palms are sweating as he clasps his hands in front of him, and it is more of an effort than usual to keep his face neutral and pleasant.

 

Her frown deepens, and it belatedly occurs to him that attempting to seem unaffected by recent events will only increase her ire. “Ma’am,” he says, and injects a little of the apology into his voice that he has not allowed to show on his face.

 

She subsides back into her armchair, eyeing him sidelong for a moment then dismissing him from her gaze with a huff. Granted no further instructions, he continues in his position, eyes drawn again and again to her face as he tries to stop himself from reliving the tense moments from two nights ago.

 

After some discussion on fashion, the upcoming visit of yet more German royalty (though at least a planned visit, this time), the new opera opening next week and the style in which Lady Portman ought to refurnish some of her house, the queen finally turns to her ladies and says, “Leave us.”

 

There are no doubts in the minds of any of those present as to whom she wants to remain, and both her ladies and the servants withdraw.

 

He is left alone with her, his heart suddenly beating like a drum.

 

She refuses to look at him for long moments, neck arching appealingly as she adjusts her sleeves, then she gathers her shawl from where it is draped beside her and toys with the braided edges. He is completely frozen, mouth too dry to speak and head too full to pick out a single thought.

 

“I imagine you are wondering why I have called you here,” she says after a minute. He cannot even summon a nod, but then she is not looking at him to see it. “I understand that you have many demands on your time, Lord M.” Finally she looks at him, but her eyes are remote, devoid of her usual artless warmth.

 

“Ma’am,” he says, but she interrupts before he can continue.

 

“I wonder if you would have some time to go through the dispatches that have accumulated - I have dealt with most of them, of course, but there are some that I would welcome your opinion on.”

 

He takes in her calm face; wets his lips and tries to find his voice. “Of course, ma’am.”

 

And so she gets to her feet and they walk through to her favourite room for their business, and she shows him the small amount of correspondence she has saved because she really needed to talk it through with someone politically saavy and she has no one else that she trusts.

 

He takes the first paper from her with numb fingers, scans it with eyes that do not see. On a normal day, they would go through every piece of this, even the ones she is well able to handle herself. She has been capable enough for… what? A year now? More? But it brings both of them amusement and comfort to go through the ritual and discuss each minor thing. He crafts little comments designed to make her laugh; she deliberately misunderstands things in order to get him to explain them very seriously until he recognises the teasing arch of her eyebrow.

 

His presence is largely unnecessary, she has just proved it, and yet it  _is_ necessary; as necessary as breathing. How can he not be here with her, how can he not follow the tens of little rituals and customs that have grown in their years together?

 

“Ma’am,” he says a little thickly, his fingers pinching hard at the corner of the document.

 

“Is it not clear to you either, Lord M?” she asks, and her voice is just as if nothing had happened between them. As though he had not clasped her to him, and she had not said that she wanted to stay, and he had not said that they  _could not_.

 

He clears his throat, tries again. “Ma’am, I think that perhaps-“

 

“Well, if it is a complicated matter, then I shall ring for tea.” He looks at her again, lost, and this time her eyes soften, kinder than he deserves.

 

He gives a half laugh, choked off, and to his shame he feels the threat of tears.

 

“Have a seat, Lord M.” And this time it is her hand which takes his arm, which guides him to the nearest chair while he numbly follows. “I forget that you have not been well.”

 

She requests tea from the servant that comes, then smooths her dress down several times in a nervous habit he has seen a hundred time before. It takes her a moment to come and to sit quietly beside him – almost as though she first needed to gather her courage.

 

After some moments examining the precise pattern of the wallpaper on the other side of the room he feels the muscles of his jaw relax, and is able to say, “Please forgive me, ma’am, I-“

 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Lord M.” He looks over at her to find her fretful; glancing at him and then away again. “I asked you here to show you that you were still –  _are_  still – wanted here.” She stumbles a little over the words, and his lips twitch into an almost-smile. “Despite... But that I understand if you do not-“ she takes a breath. ‘That is, if you would rather not…”

 

“I should be very happy to continue as your prime minister, ma’am” he says, a little hoarsely. “And your private secretary. I apologise for my words two nights ago. I was… not myself, and should never have implied that serving you is in any way an onerous duty. That is utterly false. It is in every way a pleasure, ma’am.” He tries a smile, and her eyes search his for confirmation of the truth of his words.

 

“I see.”

 

He hesitates, then takes his chance. “When a man has been drinking heavily,” he says carefully, “he says and does things which are against his character; which he would never normally do.” The message gets through, but he sees her stiffen and take it as an insult.

 

“Against his character?” she repeats. “What are you saying, Lord M?”

 

“Merely that I would ask your forgiveness for my behaviour.” She is staring at him, and his eyes flick to hers and then away again. “Ma’am, I-”

 

“I think we have spoken on this matter enough,” she says, voice a little higher than usual. “As you say, you were not yourself; surely we ought to forget it entirely.”

 

Melbourne isn’t sure that it is something he can ever forget. Many other small encounters and conversations with her are burned into his consciousness, with several in particular tormenting him frequently. But this… to have spoken to her so, held her so; to have seen her look at him as though her were the only man in the world. “Perhaps that would be best, ma’am.”

 

He darts a quick glance at her and sees her lips pull tight as though she is about to cry – luckily, at that moment the tea tray arrives. Apparently not wishing any further witnesses to her discomposure, she dismisses the servant again immediately, and they are left in a tableau of the two of them staring in opposite directions, unable to meet in the middle.

 

With no servant present, and no ladies, he stands to pour the tea. It is an office he has performed before - when they have wished to continue their work and conversations uninterrupted - and one which they have habitually joked about: that he is now well trained in how to be mother. The queen, of course, does not pour the tea.

 

He pours carefully, making her tea exactly as she likes it. A moment’s irreverent thought - that he is sure Prince Albert did not know how she took her tea - and then he passes it to her, watching as her small, delicate fingers take the saucer. It is jostled, by which of them he doesn’t know, and she steadies the cup as a small amount of tea sloshes into the saucer. “I am sorry, ma’am,” he says, words heavy with meaning, and her eyes are large and sad as she glances up at him.

 

“I ought, perhaps, to have learned from previous spillages,” she says quietly, and he winces internally.

 

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, but she just gives a slight, quick shake of her head and looks aside.

 

He has remarked on her courage before, has seen her carry on when all those around her seemed determined to see her fall, but he sees now a different side of it. He has thought to himself that she can know little of love, being so young - that her feelings could not possibly have the depth or nuances of one who has been through a great deal more in life. Now he considers what bravery it takes to keep one’s heart open, to keep trying again and again when the recipient alternately encourages, however inadvertently, and crushes it. He is teaching very poor lessons to her heart, he thinks, and suddenly worries that she will close herself off entirely. Aside from her small tendré for the Russian duke, he may gratify himself in thinking that he may be the only person she has ever sincerely attached herself to. And he is so very unworthy of her, his behaviour proves it.

 

“Perhaps we could look again at the dispatches, ma’am,” he says after a minute. “I think I may be able to see the matter more clearly now.”

 


	10. Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever clarity he has found seems to consist entirely of the fact that one, things cannot continue as they are, and two, he is unable to separate himself from her, and she is unable to let him.

Whatever clarity he has found seems to consist entirely of the fact that one, things cannot continue as they are, and two, he is unable to separate himself from her and she is unable to let him. Lacking the means to advance further in his thinking, he goes to visit his sister one afternoon.

 

“William,” she greets him happily, as he is shown into the family rooms. “Oh, I’m glad you have come! Though I warn you I have had a truly horrendous number of callers this morning, so my conversation is quite worn out.”

 

He gives this declaration a raised eyebrow, then moves to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Emily. I’m sorry to hear your morning was such a trial. I’ll just sit myself quietly with a newspaper – shall I?” So saying, he collapses happily back into his favourite armchair, rooting around behind his back with one hand to get the cushion just right before stretching out his legs before him.

 

“Don’t be a bore,” she says. “I enjoyed myself tremendously. I merely felt the need to warn you my wit may not be as sparkling as you are used to.”

 

He peers over the top of the newspaper he has already picked up, which had been conveniently left beside the chair. “I shall consider myself warned,” he says dryly. He shakes the newspaper slightly to prevent the tops of the pages from folding forward. “And how is Lord Palmerston?”

 

“My husband is always well. Recently, rather aggressively so – I’ve been trying to get him to go out riding more, to burn off the energy.”

 

“One doesn’t normally hear a woman complaining about an energetic husband - usually it’s the opposite. No, wait–“ he interrupts himself. He may not be able to see past the newspaper, but he has a sudden very clear notion of her rebuttal. “I don’t wish to know.”

 

She laughs gaily and tells him instead of her latest parties and political intrigues, which he listens to with only half an ear.

 

“Now then, brother, since I see that you are not, indeed, here to catch up on the latest movements of fashionable society, what can I do for you?”

 

“Can’t a man just want some time with his family?” he mock-grumbles, but obligingly folds the newspaper down and sets it aside. Emily’s look is fond – they’ve spent a lot more time together since Caro and his son died, and sometimes he thinks she knows him better than anyone else in the world. “I’m in a bit of a quandary,” he admits.

 

“Over what? The latest bills?”

 

“No.” He runs his hand through his hair with a sigh. “Be serious, Emily.”

 

“I was quite serious,” she says reprimandingly. “Since I can’t imagine you could possibly be willing to talk about what’s actually been troubling you these last couple of years.” She considers him carefully for a moment, her flecked green eyes, the same shade as his own, carefully cataloguing his face. “But you are, aren’t you?” she says, almost disbelieving.

 

“Emily-“

 

“May wonders never cease,” she says, and he can’t help his bark of a laugh. “You’ve dodged every attempt I’ve made – battened down the hatches and almost stopped speaking to me on several occasions – and now you’re coming to me willingly?” She makes a great show of settling in her seat. “Well, go on then.”

 

His smile is small and somewhat exasperated, and this feels a little like giving ammunition to a party you think may choose to shoot it at you at some later date, but… “Things are… difficult, at the moment,” he admits.

 

“You astound me,” she says dryly. “I had got the impression, not a week ago, that you were considering giving the whole thing up entirely and retreating to the countryside.”

 

“Yes,” he says, a little painfully. “But I – I  _can’t_ , Emily. God knows I’ve tried, but I can’t. And she… ” His smile is hopeless. “She cannot let me.”

 

“Well, it sounds as though it’s a hopeless case then, and that you’d better stay.”

 

He huffs another laugh, looks down at his intertwined fingers where they rest in his lap. “That’s no less complicated, I’m afraid. We are… It is…” He shakes his head.

 

When he raises his eyes, she is watching him calmly. “If you think you have been successfully hiding your feelings,” she says, “you are much mistaken – as I believe I have previously informed you.” Tactfully, yes, but also with little room for doubt. “Please do not feel as though you cannot be honest with me now.”

 

He sighs, and leans back fully in his seat. “God, Emily, I don’t know. I had thought I could suppress my feelings, that I could make her consider someone else. But I have failed thoroughly on both fronts, and now my efforts to detach her merely wound us both.”

 

“ _Must_  you detach her?”

 

“Of course I must,” he cries, stung. “I may not be the  _least_  suitable candidate for her hand in Europe, but that in no way makes me eligible. I want her to have a good marriage, Emily! To have a great reign as queen!”

 

“And you don’t think you can give her those things?” his sister asked softly.

 

He gave her a sharp glance. “You know all the political reasons why it would be disastrous!”

 

“I know a great many problematic ones,” she agrees, and it takes the wind out of his sails a little. “But, dearest, she is a queen. Queens are always problematic when they marry: there are so few eligible candidates and objections to all of them. Had she liked the prince you complained so bitterly about, Albert-“ his face tightens into a scowl, because he hadn’t been complaining, he’d been stating  _facts_  “-Parliament would have thrown a fit, and tried to block it in as many ways as possible. Believe me, William – I know. I researched the matter quite thoroughly at the time.”

 

In case he’d needed the knowledge, to support his queen. He smiles a little despite himself; his sister really is a wonderful person.

 

“Still-“

 

“So whatever objections you think there might be to you, they cannot be so much worse than they would be to a foreign prince with an outspoken desire to make radical changes to the country, whose uncle still draws a large allowance to support a mistress that he makes no attempt to conceal, and who is Catholic.”

 

He stops himself from what he is about to say, pursing his lips instead.

 

“Let me make your case for you, brother. You are too prominent a Whig. Far too prominent – they will say you will influence her. Yet you already do that, and have proven that you are nonetheless one of the most surprisingly politically neutral prime ministers in recent years. Negotiations could be made with the Tories, so that they felt they were represented.” She pauses for a moment. “But you already know all of that. In fact, I do not think it is such a great hurdle. People are afraid of what they do not know, and you being permanently attached to the queen is one thing that the parties – and the country – know extremely well.

 

“Then there is the Marriage Act. Quite correct, of course – you are not of royal birth, and your concerns that she might be forced to abdicate or that her children will not be considered legitimate are valid. I have…” and she hesitates, enough to make him look at her suspiciously, “perhaps done some scouting in that regard.”

 

He groans. “Emily.”

 

“And it is not as hopeless as you might think,” she persists. “I am sure you, of all people, can see the arguments for a  _queen_  not marrying someone with whom there will be suspicion of a foreign power being her equal – only moreso, for he will be a  _man_.” Her tone of voice makes it clear this is obviously ridiculous, but that it will actually work in his favour in this case.

 

“I’m not saying you won’t have to fight for it,” she finishes. “But I would not have suggested it if I did not think it was achievable.”

 

He laughs again, leans his head to the side and covers his eyes with one hand. “You put too much faith in me. Perhaps it is the problems attached to me personally which I think are insurmountable.”

 

“That may be true – but it shouldn’t be. Dear brother, I know you better than most, and I have not seen you this way about anyone in…” she trails off, and then a moment later, in tones of revelation, says, “I have never see you this way. Not even when Caroline was making both herself and you utterly ridiculous. No, I’m sorry, don’t be upset with me,” for he has leaned forwards and his eyes are hard. “I just mean… William. If your past and your age mean nothing to her, then they can mean very little to anyone else. Your beloved politicians would never have accepted you as Prime Minister if they no longer respected you after the incidents concerned, and the public will be too swayed by the romance of it and the chance of an English marriage to care overly. Perhaps you shall have a few cartoons directed at you, but not much worse than those of the last few years.”

 

The words sink in, despite his most valiant efforts to hear with scepticism. She puts it so persuasively, so simply. Why  _shouldn’t_  he marry the queen? Here is a neat list of arguments to every point he might raise.

 

“It would not be so simple,” he says quietly. “You know it would not, Emily.”

 

“Nothing worth having ever is,” she replies, and her serious gaze reminds him of how hard she had to fight to remarry, to be with her current husband. One who was not thought of as at all suitable; a man just as disreputable as Melbourne.

 

“You say it would be her choice, Emily, but she is very young. She has not thought through the consequences, and even if she agreed to them she might change her mind when she was actually faced with them!”

 

His sister stands and laces her hands across her stomach. “I believe you underestimate her, William. Strange, because that’s the one thing you constantly tell me that everyone else does. You cannot make this decision for her, or else you are going against everything you have told me when you say that she must make her own choices and follow her own heart. She is not a child; she is the queen. Let her be one.”

 

\---------------------------

 

Whatever resolution he may have come to after meeting with his sister, it unfortunately left him no clearer on what to do next.

 

His daily trips to the Palace settle back into their usual rhythm, but there is something slightly disturbed about their interactions, as though he had been previously unaware of their harmony until the injection of a discordant note. It is there every time the queen hesitates before speaking where she might not have before, when her smiles are a little more fragile and his own behaviour uncertain.

 

His plan of action is still barely in the formative stages - consisting of little other than paying her a great deal of attention - when the next state visit commences the following week. Prince Friedrich brings the very best wishes of his father and uncle, is here to facilitate a discussion on trade (in which the prince would take almost no part, but everyone loved a figurehead to lend weight to proceedings) and is apparently universally charming. He charms the queen’s ladies, he charms the Duchess of Kent. And he most definitely charms the queen.

 

Melbourne is reminded a little of Prince Alexander, in that Friedrich knows how to flatter and compliment a lady. There seems to be little depth to it, however, as he hears reports that the prince spreads his attentions far and wide - and has been caught with more than one girl below stairs. The queen doesn’t know or see any of that, of course; she opens like a flower under the prince’s attentions, and Melbourne realises all over again how out of tune things have become between them. That she is so desperate for kind attention she will turn to a stranger.

 

The thought is unworthy of him; there is no reason for her not to like the prince based on her own judgement. He is an eligible match, to be sure, though there would be fears it would bring too much power to a certain family in Europe.

 

She holds a ball in the prince’s honour. It is only correct, of course, for her to do so; in fact, it had been planned long before the prince’s arrival. Yet it irks Melbourne, because he cannot help thinking of the small, delighted smiles she directs at the prince, at the way she turns to him with little comments and observations that she would have once directed to her Lord M.

 

It is ridiculous for him to be jealous.

 

He is jealous anyway.

 

The ball is held two weeks after the prince’s arrival. Melbourne considers not going at all, but that would be the action of a man having a fit of petty temper, and not of a prime minister. Instead he dresses with extra care and tries to remind himself that only a month ago the thought of her finding a suitable prince to fall in love with had been the best outcome he had imagined. That he had wanted this for her.

 

He stops, leaning against his dresser. He  _does_  want this for her. He wants her to be happy. As long as the prince feels what he ought for her in return, then Melbourne could have no cause to wish her not to fall in love with him.

 

The ball is splendid, of course. Everyone is lit by the flattering glow of hundreds of candles, and everything sparkles; most especially the queen.

 

He cannot take his eyes off her; cannot stop his ears from tuning to her laugh. He has always been a fool, but there is an acuteness to his current awareness of the fact that renders this moment even more painful than Prince Albert’s visit.

 

He had sent her flowers, tonight. She is not wearing them.

 

She turns to the prince and laughs again.

 

“This seems familiar.” He glances at Lady Portman, who has come to stand beside him. She continues, “Yes, in fact only a few months ago. And then, of course, at her coronation ball, and then at-“

 

“Enough, Emma,” he says wearily. Her lips twitch in amusement, but she inclines her head and drops the matter. Only to take up another.

 

“She seems to favour the prince a great deal.”

 

“Yes. He is very good at presenting a pleasing appearance, I think,” he says, a little bitterly.

 

“Mmm.” They watch for a moment – the queen is seated, watching the dancing, and the prince has been granted a position of honour beside her. He leans a little too close, and her eyes shine a little too brightly for Melbourne’s comfort. “He appears to take great interest in her.”

 

“I had noticed,” Melbourne drawls.

 

“He is always asking of her favourite books and musicians. And the other day, she said that he was one of the most well-dressed men she had the pleasure of knowing.”

 

Melbourne's hands tighten into fists.

 

“Though I rather think that-“

 

“What do you want me to say, Emma?” he interrupts. “I shall be very happy for them, I’m sure.”

 

She gives him a long look. “Though I rather feel that his attentions are formulaic,” she continues, as though he hadn’t interrupted. “And have little substance to them. I’m not sure how serious he really is in his attentions.”

 

It is a thought Melbourne has had himself. “I’m sure he will be serious enough if he thinks there is gain in it for him,” he says. “He is just testing the ground, at the moment.”

 

She glances at the couple again. “Well, he may perhaps encounter a few potholes.” The musicians played a few notes of the next song. “And you – go and ask the queen to dance. You know she will be disappointed if you do not!” she adds sternly before he can protest.

 

He gives a small, pained smile, and then leaves her to make his way over to the queen. Better to get this duty over with, perhaps, and then he can retire.

 

Once he is only a few feet away, she turns, her eyes acknowledging his presence, and he approaches closer. “Lord M,” she says.

 

“Ma’am.” He hesitates, surprisingly conscious of the prince’s presence. “I wonder if you would do me the honour?” He makes the slightest gesture towards the dancing.

 

Her face is most grave as she considers him, and he wonders what she is thinking. How strange it is that he cannot tell, any more, where once he would have sworn that she was an open book to him.

 

She does not answer, but holds out her hand, and he reaches to take it in his with a slight bow. Her beautifully embroidered cream satin gown settles around her as she stands, cast into a warm glow by the candlelight, and her gloved hand feels so small and delicate within his own.

 

He leads her to the dance floor, feeling suddenly as if all eyes are on them, as though everyone present knows the burning in his heart and the depths of his mistakes. Couples clear a path for them and they slip through to the space in the centre, the queen still quiet beside him. He turns to her then, to her serious mien and her eyes which seem to call to him and accuse all at once.

 

He is tired of resisting, and this is something he does not wish to resist. His arm slides around her, coming to rest just above the small of her back; as though it belongs there. His other hand closes a little more tightly around the hand he was already holding, drawing it to the side, and they stand there for a moment in perfect pose until he sweeps her away into the dance.

 

It is… wonderful. Every breath he takes brings the faint smell of lavender. Her closeness as they dance calls again to the memory of holding her to him that night, of the brief press of her before he had pushed her away.

 

But she will not look at him, keeping her face tilted always to the side, not looking up to see his gaze. By contrast, he cannot look away, studying the dark strokes of her eyelashes, the curve of her cheek and the fine arch of her eyebrows.

 

He is such a fool.

 

“Ma’am,” he says, very quietly.  

 

Her lips press together a little more, and she turns her head further to the side, watching the flow of couples.

 

It is, abruptly, unbearable.

 

“Ma’am,” he says again, and flexes his palm against her back, presses his hand more firmly against her. Her response is seen in the parting of her lips, in the slight flush which dusts across her cheeks. Still she is stubborn, still she will not look at him.

 

Carefully, watching her the whole time, he moves his grip on her other hand so that his thumb can trace small circles over the base of hers. This brings a response; her eyes flash up to meet his, and there is anger and betrayal.

 

“I have spoken to you of my sister before,” he says, and it is such a non-sequitur that she pauses to listen. “When she remarried it was to a gentleman that most of the family – and society – thought was not a good match for her. In terms of… acceptability. I was one of the ones who supported her.” Her pale eyes watch him quizzically now, and the slowness of this part of the dance allows him to duck his head a little and speak to her more closely. “I told her to follow her heart, said that any objections others might raise could be overcome.”

 

She has tensed in his arms now, and he sees the frown come back to her face. “The other day,” he continues, “she scolded me roundly.” A slight smile comes over his lips at the memory. “She said that-“ he drew a quick breath “-I have not been allowing you to follow yours, ma’am. That I should have the same courage I showed in supporting her.”

 

And now there is something else in her eyes as she searches his own. “Lord M?” she whispers, and there is such disbelief there, such confusion.

 

He clears his throat. “I should have told you long ago that… that I want you to be happy, ma’am. And that,  _whoever_  you choose to be happy with, I will always support you in it.”

 

She pulls away from him now, attached only by his hand holding hers, and he lets her go; his arm falling uselessly to his side.

 

“Why are you telling me this now?” she says, vulnerable. And then, covering it acerbically, “Have you had too much champagne? I’ve been informed that drink makes men act against their characters.”

 

He can’t help himself, uses the pressure of his fingers on hers to draw her back in a little closer.  “No, ma’am,” he says seriously. “And being drunk… it lowers inhibitions.” He can see her remember her own previous indiscretion after too much champagne; wonders if she regretted it. “Causes people to act in ways that might not be sensible. But not that are untrue,” he adds carefully.

 

And now she breaks away completely, her expressive face caught between too many emotions; her lip trembles but her eyes harden. “I begin to think I cannot trust anything you say, Lord M. You are so contradictory from one day to the next.”

 

He bows his head slightly. “I am… sorry for that, ma’am. When it is difficult to admit something to oneself, it is even harder to give a clear representation to someone else.”

 

“I-“ She frowns and then looks around, becoming aware of their position standing in a circle of people still dancing. She glances at him again, and her frown deepens. “I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Lord M. And I am tired.”

 

She leaves him, and for the rest of the evening he at least has the consolation of seeing her distraction and inattention to anyone else, prince or otherwise.

 

It is selfish of him, selfish and useless, but  _let him not be too late_.

 


	11. A Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They look so beautiful,” she says. “But they fade so quickly.”

It is with renewed energy that he attacks the next day. Whatever his flaws, Melbourne has always known he possesses a gift at planning a campaign, at manipulating his opponents, at steering things around to the path he wishes travelled. He has had cause to use these skills on the queen many a time, in order to tactfully guide her away from courses of action chosen in ignorance or temper. But this, this feels entirely different somehow.

 

She has lost her trust in him, at least to some degree. He has fooled her with regards to his heart again and again, and bruised her own quite thoroughly. It is therefore up to him, now, to prove that his love is true and that he will stand with her. That this time he will not pull away.

 

It is not something she has said, that he must prove himself, but something that he nonetheless knows, instinctively. Indeed, the day after the ball she continues acting as though they never had their conversation, only the occasional nervous blush betraying her when she glances his way.

 

And, well, how does a prime minister woo a queen?

 

Gifts, attention, flirting. As they walk through the formal garden, two of her ladies in tow, he cannot suppress a self-mocking smile at the thought that he has already unwittingly rolled out every trick in his arsenal, and  _they had worked_. He is left with nothing, no extra measure to deploy to now indicate that he loves her, because he already gives her everything that he is. His behaviour, the behavior of a man stupidly, powerfully in love and trying not to let it interfere with his duties, is something she now views as normal. And associates with someone she thinks does not love her  _enough_.

 

He must have let out a sigh, because the queen stops and eyes him with a quizzical sideways frown.

 

“Sorry, ma’am.”

 

Her consideration lingers on him a moment longer, and then she turns her gaze to the flowerbeds. Everything is fading at this time of year, the flowers losing their petals one by one as though plucked by fairies.

 

“You seem thoughtful today,” she says after a moment. Her voice is inquisitive, but there is also a hesitancy there.

 

He hums in distracted agreement, watching Lady Portman and Lady Lyttelton drift around the grass path as it curves to the side, leaving the queen the illusion of privacy.

 

“Or perhaps you are suffering the effects of last night?”

 

He gives her a quick look at the archness of her tone, then huffs a laugh. “I would hate to have you think I overindulge on a regular basis, ma’am. I’m afraid I must disappoint you and tell you that I had no more than a glass of champagne yesterday.”

 

He is watching her carefully, and sees how her gaze flicks to his eyes, away and then back again before she resolutely turns to the flowers. She crouches beside them, her dark green gown seeming to hiss in protest as the skirt creases and folds. Her fingers stretch out to brush against the petals of a white rose, browning at the edges. Despite her care, two petals detach themselves at the touch, tumbling down to the earth below.

 

He crouches alongside her, sweeping his coat tails out behind him, and reaches to pick up one of the petals.

 

“They look so beautiful,” she says. “But they fade so quickly.” Her fingertips nudge the flower again, and another few petals fall, the rose now gap-toothed and exposed.

 

“All living things do, ma’am,” he says cautiously. The petal he has retrieved is held between his thumb and forefinger, satin-soft in his grip, and then in a darting movement she has stolen it from him. She frowns down at it thoughtfully, resting her elbows across her knees as they stay crouched. Her gown must be getting soaked from the wet grass.

 

She abandons the petal, allowing it to slide down the folds of her gown, and instead leans forward to delicately sniff the flower. He cannot help but admire the picture she makes, the dainty shape of her and the arc of her pose. His face, he knows when she looks up, must be reflecting how utterly lost he is, and her own expression immediately shuts down. Briskly, efficiently, she gets back to her feet and smooths down her dress, looking after her ladies, ignoring him as he stiffly rises beside her.

 

“What is the point of something so fleeting?” she asks, and it is so pointed that he cannot help himself, reaching out to catch his fingers against her small, gloved hand. She stills, and for a moment he is so in tune with her that he can feel how she holds her breath. He allows his fingers to loosely encircle her wrist, a hold she could easily escape from but doesn’t. Her whole body is half-turned, determinedly facing away. He can feel the tension cording through her, can feel the point of connection between them almost burning, and his own heart is quick and racing, terrified of what he is doing, that her ladies may turn back and see the liberty he is taking, terrified most of all that _she_ will cast him down for it.  

 

He must say something, now, before the moment passes, before her slim wrist slides away from his grip. “The flower may be beautiful,” he says, desperately trying to fit words to his purpose, “and bring pleasure, but even after it is gone the rest remains.” There is a slight lessening of strain in the stretch of her arm behind her; she eases her pose into one of listening, even as she still faces away. “The leaves remain, ma’am, and the heart of the rose-bush - even during the winter, even when the sun and warmth are gone. Still they wait, and the rose will flower again. And again, every year. It is constant.”

 

A moment passes, and then her attitude softens and she turns back to him with curiosity written across her face as she searches his eyes for the meaning of his words.  

 

“It is not constant,” she says, “to show one face to the world, only to discard it at the change of the weather.”

 

His fingers tighten for a moment, and he forces them to open, to release her and let his hand drop to his side. Her own arm remains outstretched, and she stares at him quizzically before letting it fall.

 

“Anyone who does not look beyond the flower, ma’am, does not truly know the rose. It is still the same plant whatever the season.”

 

“With different behaviour,” she says slightly sharply. “It cares about different things in the summer and winter, and shows very little constancy in-between.”

 

“Not different behaviour, ma’am, just different… plumage.”

 

For a second her lips twitch in irritation at his denial, but then a moment later they twitch again in amusement at the ridiculous path their metaphor has run. He lets his own eyes crease in acknowledgement and his mouth soften in apology, and sees her gaze track each of these markers and understand them. Perhaps once he would have said that she found it hard to understand the feelings of others, but over the years, and particularly of late, she has become much more empathetic. She can read him now, and the thought sends a frisson of contentment through him, but also one of frustration. She  _knows_  him – she should know he loves her, that he would not toy with her, that he would not have spoken as he did last night without being utterly sincere.

 

Her ladies have walked back up the path, and the queen turns to make some small comment to them.

 

“I think it may rain,” Lady Lyttelton says.

 

“That will probably finish off the flowers,” the queen sighs. “But,” she adds after a moment, “I suppose it is still good for the plants.”

 

\--------------------------------

 

The following afternoon, he is directed to the music room and finds her there with a large party – her ladies, her mother, foreign dignitaries. And the prince, of course, standing next to her, forgetting to turn pages until she half-scolds him with a tinkling laugh. The prince makes some excuse about it being hard to concentrate when there are such… distractions claiming his attention, and the queen gives a small, curling smile, pleased at the compliment even as she laughingly accuses him of teasing and then of dereliction of his duty.

 

Melbourne stands in the corner he has picked and watches. It is both more acutely painful to watch this, now that he has declared his interest and not been immediately preferred, and also less so, because at least now she knows. At least he has finally told her that she  _can_  choose where she wishes.

 

Still, every laugh she gives stings a little. He was the only one who could make her laugh, when they first met. She is not a naturally dour person, but she had very few sources of joy in her life then, and it had been his pleasure to introduce little jokes to brighten her day. The lesson has been well learned, and it brings him joy to see her laugh with others now – but somehow… Again, he tells himself that he wants her to be happy, that if she is happy with Prince Friedrich he will accept that, but this time his heart rejects the notion entirely.

 

 _No_ , his heart says, she cannot be with this man. She cannot be with anyone else. No one will ever love her as Melbourne does.

 

It is ridiculous.  _He_ is ridiculous. And yet he remembers her wrist in his hand, remembers their dance, the shine of her eye, the press of her body, the warmth in her voice as she said that she had already found the person she needed.

 

As he had. He would fight for her, as long as there was a battle to be fought.

 

\----------------

 

“I think I’ve sabotaged myself,” he says to his sister as he is shown into her sitting room.

 

She rises to greet him, but he has already thrown himself into his usual armchair, leaving her standing with an expression of disapproval.

 

“How  _lovely_  to see you, William,” she says with a mixture of sweetness and archness, and then leaves the silence hanging for long enough that he is given to understand the formalities  _will_  be observed.

 

He sighs and picks himself up out of the seat again. “Emily,” he says, and kisses the cheek she obligingly presents to him. “You’re looking well today.”

 

“Why, thank you, brother. You are such a charming guest.” His lips tug into a reluctant smile, and, with a glance to ask permission, he reseats himself. “Now, tell me what it is you’ve done.”

 

The tale is long, and of course she knows many parts of it but he spills it out all the same, everything he’s ever said, that the queen has ever said; everything that’s happened. His sister’s eyes grow large, narrow, soften, and occasionally roll with exasperation.

 

“Goodness,” she says when he has finally finished, and she has called for tea. “You turned down the queen!”

 

“You knew that.”

 

“The generalities, perhaps, but not the specifics! I had no idea you were so hard-headed as to repeatedly turn down the advances of a woman you’re in love with. She would have  _proposed_ ,” she adds, as if to herself.

 

Melbourne rubs his thumb over his brow, because yes, he thinks so too. He hadn’t let the queen speak the words, that day at Brocket House, but her intent had been clear. He hadn’t told anyone about it, afterwards, has held it inside of him as a secret pleasure and pain. Until now.

 

“That must have taken a lot of courage,” Emma muses, and he has to close his eyes for a brief moment, because he remembers the queen’s desperate stoicism after he’d turned her away, remembers how the shape of her dark dress had blurred with his own tears as she’d walked back down the path. “I can’t imagine having to propose to a man – it’s so backwards.”

 

Melbourne raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were the driving force behind your second marriage,” he comments dryly.

 

She flaps her hand in his direction. “ _Encouraging_  a man to propose to you is hardly the same thing, dearest. Men are easily manipulatable creatures, it’s true, but actually proposing is quite another thing. And you turned her down,” she repeats to herself.

 

The chair suddenly seems a lot less comfortable, and he shifts uneasily. “Come, Emily,” he says. “You knew already that I had told her it was impossible.”

 

This earned him a slight glare. “You cannot deny you vastly under-represented the facts,” she says. “I thought you pining alone, quietly, while staving off her naïve admiration from a distance – I had no idea you had discussed such things with her. That you had rejected her outright, and more than once at that!”

 

He shifts again.

 

“Well,” she says, suddenly shifting back to cheerful hostess mode. “The facts have not changed so much in the end. There appears to be strong affection on both sides. Presumably now you just have to convince her you aren’t going to bolt from the stables if she ever plucks up enough courage to ask you again. Good God, my brother refused the Queen of England!”

 

“Thank you, Emily, you’re improving the situation vastly.”

 

“You can hardly blame me for your own actions!” The  _silly boy_  implied at the end of the sentence lingers in the air, and he sighs.

 

“No.”

 

“So, tell me of your last conversation with her. What did she say? Let us see what we have to work with.”

 

Somewhat fumblingly, he recounts the conversation in the garden, and his sister looks at him with something akin to horrified pity. “You had a conversation about a flower? Oh,  _William_!” Then she gives a sudden laugh. “I do believe,” she manages after a moment, “that you likened yourself to a delicate English rose. Oh no, no, don’t attempt to defend yourself, you have quite tickled me. At least if nothing else comes from this conversation, I have evidence that my brother, the prime minister, is made as much of a bumbling a fool by love as everyone else.”

 

He cannot take offence, and she smiles at him so fondly that his own hopeless thoughts lighten a little.

 

“Have you told her how you feel?” his sister asks.

 

“She knows how I-“

 

“No!” She frowns at him, and her voice turns serious. “I’m not asking what you think she knows, or what you have managed to couch in subtle language which has probably just left her unsure of you. Have you  _told_  her how you feel?”

 

He opens his mouth to say  _of course_ , and then just as abruptly closes it. Has he? He has always been so careful not to stray beyond the bounds of propriety, however much he has skirted them. Even on that intemperate drunken night at his home, he had said  _nothing,_ beyond that they could not. Could not be together, could not marry.

 

_Does she know?_

 

“Hmmm,” Emily says, apparently reading the train of his thoughts with unerring accuracy. “If you mean to seriously pursue her, I would start there. Try being honest,” she adds helpfully, and smiles pleasantly in response to his baleful look.

 

“It’s hardly so easy,” he says. She sips her tea, and stares at him with bland amusement.

 

“It rather sounds like she has been making all the effort so far, brother. Time for you to get your feet wet.”


End file.
